


Damage

by dontcareajot



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, eventual identity reveal, lots and lots of fluff, there's a tiny bit of blood and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-26 23:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6260548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontcareajot/pseuds/dontcareajot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Parker finds himself in a sticky situation and who should show up to rescue him but the infamous Deadpool? Now Peter feels indebted to the mercenary... And maybe weirdly charmed by him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Both DP and Spidey are based mostly (though not entirely) on their movie counterparts (that would be Garfield for Spidey, not Holland).
> 
> This work has now been translated into Russian! You can find the translation [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6867024) , courtesy of dartsnapper @ tumblr.

Peter wakes up dizzy and hurting all over.

The world has gone sideways and for a heartbeat or two he can’t make sense of what he’s seeing. Then he realizes, no- _he’s_ gone sideways. His shoulder and face are pressed uncomfortably into an unforgiving concrete floor. He feels stiff, sore like he hasn’t moved in a long time. He tries to raise his hands, to touch his own face, verify that his mask is still in place, but he doesn’t get very far. His hands are bound tight behind his back. Everything smells like blood.

He struggles into a sitting position. His vision swims. He feels… _drugged_. Weak and heavy-lidded. He can’t remember how he got here.

He looks around, hoping to get his bearings. It looks like he’s in an old warehouse. Pale sunlight is streaming in through skylights in the ceiling, illuminating… Well, not much of anything. Dust-covered cement floors and bits of trash lying around. Nothing is familiar.

It looks like there are people milling about at the far end of the room, near the entrance. They’re far enough away that Peter can’t tell exactly how many there are or hear anything they’re saying. If they are, in fact, saying anything at all. A few of them have guns, some holstered and some not. Knowing that should put Peter on edge but the only feeling he’s able to dredge up out of the fog that is currently his brain is one of utmost weariness. He feels like he could tip over and go back to sleep.

So, definitely drugged, then.

He opens his mouth. He’s not sure what for. Maybe to call out to the armed strangers. But that would be a bad idea, wouldn’t it? He realizes this a half a second before he follows through and snaps his mouth shut. But it turns out not to matter, because at that moment a distraction provides itself.

There’s a loud banging on the door. From the other side, someone yells. Loud enough for Peter to hear even from as far away as he is, which is impressive. All the strangers turn toward the noise as one, each of them tense, hands flying to weapons, which tells Peter that they weren’t expecting company.

A second later, a shot rings out. Then another, and another, and then all the strangers are firing at once and all Peter can hear is a cacophony of gunfire. Bullets pinging off metal walls, striking flesh, spent shells and casings falling to the ground. The noise makes his head hurt. He closes his eyes, just for a second- or so it seems- and when he opens them again the strangers are all on the ground, limbs splayed and weapons abandoned. Standing amidst the bodies, sword drawn and dripping red, is Deadpool.

Peter knows he’s pretty out of it but he’d recognize the crazed mercenary anywhere. He’s only dealt directly with the man a handful of times but his iconic getup is hard to mistake. And if there was any doubt, the way he skips toward Peter and yells, “Spidey! There’s my baby boy,” would be enough to confirm it. Peter is pretty sure no one else has ever called him _baby boy_ , even in jest.

“What are-“ Peter stops. His voice sounds wrecked and his mouth is dry. He clears his throat and tries again. “What’re you doing here, Deadpool?” A little better, but still slurred. There’s blackness creeping in around the edges of his vision. Even he can tell that probably isn’t good.

Deadpool reaches him between one blink and the next. The mercenary kneels down in front of him, head tilted to the side. There are bullet holes punched in his suit. “Aw, Spidey, what’d they do to you? Your suit’s all torn! And I’m pretty sure that’s _your_ blood.”

Blood? Peter looks down at himself and- oh. Right. He’d smelled blood earlier and there it is, seeping slowly from a wound in his side. He tries to place his palm over it but the bindings pull at his wrists and he’s reminded abruptly that he’s still tied up. Great.

“Never fear,” Deadpool says, standing just long enough to strike a heroic pose. “Deadpool is here!” The effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that he’s also covered in blood. Probably the blood of all the people he just killed, which Peter makes a mental note to berate him for later. Right now he’s too tired.

“You’re awfully quiet today,” Deadpool comments, kneeling once more to cut the ropes binding him. Peter didn’t see where he pulled the knife from, and doesn’t see where it disappears to once he’s finished using it. Peter’s shoulders scream in relief as he’s able to roll them forward. His entire body is so stiff and sore that he can only muster of a grunt of protest as Deadpool scoops him into his arms and starts to carry him bridal-style toward the entrance.

“Sorry, sorry,” Deadpool mutters, half under his breath. “It’s just- you don’t seem like you can walk and actually you seem pretty out of it- but I probably should’ve asked you if I could pick you up, huh? Shit. ‘S too late now. Wait, where should I take you? To the Avengers? But they’ll yell at me. Do you have a Spidey Cave somewhere? Huh? Spider-Man?”

Peter rests his head against Deadpool’s shoulder and doesn’t answer. The man smells like gun powder. He always smells like gun powder. And he’s so warm. Is he always this warm?

Peter drifts off while Deadpool is still rambling. He’s pretty sure the last word he hears before he gives in to the blackness is _tacos_.

-

Later, consciousness hits Peter in the face like a sledgehammer. One second he’s blissfully unaware, the next he’s sitting bolt upright on a sofa and feeling every blow he’s ever taken all at once. He’s not sure how long he sits there clutching the arm rest and staring blankly at the floor. Long enough to mentally catalogue all his new injuries. The uncomfortable twinge in his ankle, probably from landing on it wrong. The various aches in his back and arms and legs where he no doubt sustained a few kicks or punches. The throbbing in his head and along his jaw. The burn of a cut along his side.

That one hurts the worst, though when Peter looks down at it he’s surprised to see that it’s been bandaged. Just enough of his suit has been torn away to get at the wound. The rest of it, he finds, has been left alone. Even his mask, which remains firmly in place. He breathes a sigh of relief as his fingers find the edge of it at his throat.

“Spider pal! You’re awake!” Deadpool is standing in the doorway, paper bag clutched in one hand, half-eaten taco in the other. He’s still spattered with blood, now dry and turning brown.

Peter nods. “How long was I out?”

Deadpool plops himself down in the nearest arm chair, a ratty green thing that was either just rescued from a trash heap or belongs in one. “Only about twenty, twenty-five minutes. Probably. Just long enough for me to fix you up and get some tacos. Guess you’ve got a little healing factor too, huh? Anyone else would’ve been out for _hours_ on the stuff they gave you.”

“A little, yeah,” Peter hedges. “I take it this is your place?”

It’s hard to tell with the mask on but the way Deadpool palms at the back of his neck suggests a certain amount of sheepishness. “Uh, yep. Welcome to the Deadhut. Or one of them, anyway. Mi casa, su casa. And all that.”

The so-called _Deadhut_ is kind of a mess but then Peter didn’t really expect much else. It could use a good dusting and a broom and there’s a lot of clutter. Random things like magazines, video games, books, knitting needles and yarn, bullets, knives, a spatula, toy cars, and stuffed animals, among other things. The paint on the walls is peeling and faded, a fact which the various posters that are pinned up do nothing to really draw attention from. The floors are bare concrete and the furniture couldn’t clash more if Deadpool had planned it that way. Hell, maybe he _did_ plan it that way.

But… it’s not terrible. Kind of cozy, in a strange way. Not like Peter’s apartment, which feels empty and cold no matter how much time he spends there. This place feels lived in. Which is funny since Peter is reasonably sure that Deadpool doesn’t spend even half his time in New York.

Peter clears his throat. “Did you, um…” He gestures at his own face, hoping Deadpool understands what he’s getting at. “While I was out, did you…?”

“Did I…? Oh, your mask? Nah, man, come on. I’d never do that! Definitely crosses a line, don’t you think?”  
Peter has no real reason to believe him but he feels relieved nonetheless. Deadpool has a few screws loose but he wouldn’t betray Spider-Man that way, would he? He’s made no secret of how much he looks up to him.

“How are you feeling?” Deadpool presses when Peter doesn’t comment. “You hungry? Got enough for us to share.” He brandishes the paper bag.

“No,” Peter lies. This is, after all, Deadpool, and Peter doesn’t trust him. Not after all the stories he’s heard. And if you don’t trust someone, you don’t accept food from them. Right? “I feel… better. I think. How’d you find me?”

“I saw you get taken,” Deadpool says. He hasn’t eaten any more of his taco, Peter can’t help but notice. “So I just, you know. Followed the baddies. Took me straight to where they were holding you. Which- warehouse? I mean, how fucking cliché, right?”

Peter rubs at his temples. His head is still throbbing but it’s fading by the minute. Now his skin is starting to itch under his mask. He probably bled and now it’s dried and cracking. “So what happened? I remember most of it. I was trying to stop a bank robbery. Big job, lots of mooks in ski masks. Then it gets a little fuzzy.”

“Yeah, I heard the commotion from a few streets over. Got there just in time to see you get knocked on the head. Then you got a little wobbly on your feet, some guy got a needle in you, and the next thing I knew you were being stuffed in a shady looking van and driven across town. They were asking for _ransom_. How weird is that? I think the bank job was bait, though, to lure you out, but I didn’t let the leader guy live long enough to find out for sure-“

“Ransom from _who_?” Peter interrupts, startled. His Aunt May? But then, they’d have to know his identity if that was the case.

“The _Avengers_ ,” Deadpool tells him, the word accompanied with a grand hand gesture. “So fucking stupid, right? All they did was risk pissing them off. But the leader, he wasn’t real bright. You could tell just looking at him. One of those guys who thinks it’s cool to wear socks with sandals.”

“So… did they get word to the Avengers?”

“Nah, I think I offed them all before they got the chance.”

“Why? Why did you even bother?” Peter wonders, though he’s partly relieved. The last thing he needs is the Avengers thinking he can’t handle himself. He feels bad enough already about losing a fight with a bunch of randoms. Not even a _super villain_. Just a group of normal guys with guns and drugs strong enough to knock him out. He’s been off his game lately. Between school, work, and being Spider-Man, it’s been hard to find enough hours in the day to sleep properly.

Deadpool tilts his head, once again doing his best impression of a confused puppy. Peter imagines he’s looking quite earnest behind that mask. “They hurt you, Spidey. So they had to pay.”

Peter shakes his head. “I- that’s not- you shouldn’t have killed them.”

“They were _bad guys_ and they _hurt you_. Even after you were unconscious. They must’ve, because I know you weren’t that banged up when they first got you. I had to rescue you. I _did_ rescue you.”

“There was a better way. There’s always a better way. You didn’t have to-“

Deadpool has gone very, very still in his chair. He’s taken to gripping the armrest. Hard.

Peter sighs. “You did rescue me,” he says, slowly. “And I’m grateful. Thank you, Deadpool.”

Deadpool instantly brightens. “Any time, Spider-Man!”

Peter struggles to his feet but it’s easy enough to find his footing once he works the soreness out of his legs. His ankle complains when he puts too much weight on it but he’s had worse before. It’s nothing he can’t manage.

“Leaving already?” Deadpool pouts, watching as Peter moves toward the window. He stands, too, tacos left in the chair.

“Gotta get home,” Peter says. He pushes the window up and glances around to get a sense for where he is. Though Deadpool claimed he was only out for about twenty minutes it’s somehow already pitch black outside. There aren’t very many people around, which is good. Less people to see him leaving this apartment. “It’s Monday, right? That’s when they re-run Golden Girls.”

He’s joking (mostly- who doesn’t love a bit of Golden Girls?) but, behind him, Deadpool gasps. “You like Golden Girls? I think I’m in love. Marry me, Spider-Man!”

Peter rolls his eyes. When he turns, he catches Deadpool staring at his ass and making grabby hands. This earns him another eye roll which, unfortunately, he can’t even see. “Never in a million years,” he decides. “Besides, I’d look terrible in a wedding dress.”

“Then I’ll wear the dress! I’ve got the legs for it.” Deadpool strikes a ridiculous pose and Peter, despite all his aches and pains, actually finds himself laughing. It’s short-lived, mostly because it pulls at the wound in his side, but it’s enough that Deadpool hears. He coos, “Don’t you have just the cutest laugh? You should laugh more, Spidey!”

Peter frowns. “I laugh plenty,” he says. “You’re just not around to hear it.” Once the words are out Peter realizes they sound an awful lot like some kind of invitation and wishes he could take them back. There’s a pause where Deadpool seems to be trying to decide on how to reply.

Thankfully he settles on a simple and non-awkward response of, “Whatever, everyone could use a little more laughter in their life. Even spider-themed superheroes.”

“I… guess that’s true,” Peter admits. He clears his throat. “Um, thanks again, Deadpool. I owe you one.” He holds out his hand for a friendly shake. It seems like the right thing to do.

Deadpool hums. “You _do_ , don’t you,” he says, taking the proffered hand. Peter can’t help but notice that Deadpool’s hand dwarfs his own. Granted, he’s wearing thicker gloves, but still. “Say, Spider-Man,” Deadpool begins. He still isn’t letting go of Peter’s hand. “I’ve got this… mission tomorrow. Could really use your help.”

“Oh, no, wait a minute,” Peter says. He goes to pull his hand away and for a moment it seems like Deadpool isn’t going to let him have it back but when Peter keeps pulling he gives in and releases it. “I don’t kill people, Deadpool. I’m not gonna tag along on any merc business.”

“It’s not!” Deadpool shakes his head. “No merc business, promise! Just a little thing. And if you get there and decide it’s not for you, you can walk away! No hard feelings. Promise. Scout’s honor.”

On the one hand, Peter wouldn’t say he’s exactly eager to spend any more time in the mercenary’s company. On the other, he really does owe the man and Peter doesn’t like being in debt to anyone but especially not semi-insane anti-heroes. “There won’t be any killing? No thieving? No morally ambiguous anything?”

“Nope!”

Peter gives in with a sigh. “Alright, fine. But I’ve got…” He very nearly says school, but quickly rewords himself. “Stuff. To do. So I can’t meet you until tomorrow night.”

“Works for me! Meet ya here?”

Peter glances out the window again. “Yeah, I think I can find my way back.”

“Great! See you tomorrow, Spidey! Be careful out there. No more abductions! Would hate to have to rescue you again!”

This last part is yelled out the window as Peter swings away on a web. He rolls his eyes- something Deadpool makes him do a lot- but he’s also smiling under the mask.

-

“Ow, ow, ow,” Peter mutters as he carefully peels his suit off. It seems like every inch of suit reveals a new bruise. Evidently the men who captured him earlier had a vendetta against Spider-Man. A vendetta they enacted with kicks and punches to an unconscious victim.

Peter stands in front of the mirror while he removes his mask, almost afraid at what he’ll find beneath it. He was right about the blood. There’s some caked on his chin, where his lip split, and on his cheek, where he suffered a minor cut. Other than that there’s some bruising, mostly around his eye. The one on his cheekbone has already faded to yellow, which means that by morning it should be gone completely.

It’s with some trepidation that he peels away the bandage on his side. But the cut isn’t looking too bad. It would seem that along with slapping a bandage over it, Deadpool also took the time to clean and disinfect the wound. Something else he has to be grateful for, then.

Peter squints at himself in the mirror. The Avengers wouldn’t like him hanging around with someone like Deadpool. He’s heard Tony complain about the merc more than once. But Deadpool helped him today. Even the Avengers would have to agree that Peter owes him a debt, right? And there’s nothing wrong with repaying that debt, so long as it’s harmless, which Deadpool had assured him it will be.

But then, does Deadpool even know the meaning of the word harmless? He’s crazy. That’s one thing everyone that’s worked with him or even spent five minutes in the same room with him seems to agree on. But today he’d seemed… bizarre, but lucid. But maybe Peter just caught him on a good day?

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shit,” he mutters, which he feels sums up his feelings rather nicely.

He needs a bath, he abruptly decides. Not only is he filthy but he’s carried Deadpool’s smell home with him. After a bath, he’ll study. And then, if there’s time, sleep.

There’s a part of him that’s very anxious indeed to see what Deadpool has in store for him tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _This_ is the mission? Ice cream?”

Deadpool thrusts out a vanilla cone, silently urging Peter to take it. “No, no. This is just pre-game. I got vanilla cause I didn’t know what kind you’d like and it seemed safe but _please_ tell me vanilla isn’t your favorite, it’s so _boring_.” His own ice cream is about six different colors and smells like fruit.

Instead of meeting in Deadpool’s apartment, Deadpool had been waiting for Spider-Man on the roof. So now here they sit, legs dangling over the edge. Peter takes his ice cream with a great deal of hesitation. What if it’s poisoned? Is he being paranoid? Probably. If Deadpool wanted him dead, he could’ve just offed him yesterday. Still…

“I like vanilla but it’s not my favorite,” he says, abruptly deciding to bite the bullet (or, in this case, lick the ice cream). He pushes his mask up to his nose and adds, “My favorite is actually chocolate chip.”

Deadpool scoffs. “That’s just as bad,” he declares. “Fucking _chocolate chip_. That’s just boring with sprinkles-“ He stops talking. 

Peter freezes, immediately on alert. He looks over but Deadpool is just staring at him. Or past him, it’s hard to tell with the mask, but when Peter looks behind himself there’s nothing there. “Uh,” he starts, but evidently Deadpool finds his own on switch again because he interrupts.

“How old are you?” he blurts.

Peter has a very quick internal debate about whether or not to share the truth, then decides he might as well. There’s very little someone can do with an age. “Twenty.” He adds, eye roll practically audible, “So don’t worry, you can continue to ogle my ass guilt-free.”

“What?” Deadpool says, and Peter has to mentally backtrack.

“I mean- I meant to say-“

“Nope, too late!” Deadpool says, jabbing a victorious finger toward Peter’s face. “You said it, the whole world heard it! I get to stare at your butt whenever I feel like it!”

“That’s _not_ what I said,” Peter argues, but he’s smiling so he’s not sure how effective it is. “And you’re the only one here so I don’t think the whole _world_ heard-“

“No take backs!”

Peter chuckles and goes back to eating his ice cream, silently admitting defeat. He has a feeling that most arguments with Deadpool can’t be won.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees Deadpool reach for the bottom of his mask and then hesitate, fingering the edge of it. Peter tries to seem wholly engrossed in his own ice cream, even going to far as to angle his body slightly away. One of the small handful of things Peter knows about the mercenary is that he’s scarred, apparently pretty badly, though no one can seem to agree on the cause or the extent of the scarring. They all agree on one thing, though- Deadpool hates being seen without his mask.

“Good stuff,” Deadpool says a moment later. Peter dares to look over. Deadpool’s ice cream cone is gone and his mask is back in place. Behind him, the sun is just starting to set and New York City is just starting to light up.

“What the- how’d you finish so fast?”

Deadpool shrugs. “Practice.”

Peter takes another pointed bite out of his cone. “Well, us normal people have to contend with brain freeze.”

Deadpool kicks his legs against the side of the building. “Take your time, baby boy, there’s no rush.”

The next few minutes are filled with companionable silence, something Peter didn’t even know Deadpool was capable of. But the mercenary seems lost in thought, eyes tracing the skyline and fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the the roof.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Peter says, softly, almost hesitant to interrupt whatever is going on in his head.

“What kinda girl do you take me for?” Deadpool teases, snapping out of it. “They cost way more than a penny.”

Peter recognizes it for the evasion it is and doesn’t comment. He and Deadpool aren’t… friends, by any stretch of the imagination. He has no right to pry.

“Your suit’s all back in one piece,” Deadpool notes. “How many of those have you got hanging in your spider closet back home, anyway?”

“How many do _you_ have?” Peter counters.

“Touché.”

Peter licks his lips, clearing them of ice cream. Deadpool watches with a strange sort of intensity. Peter clears his throat. He’s not sure what Deadpool finds so fascinating. It’s just- his face. Not even his entire face, just a piece of it. And little does Deadpool know that under the rest of the mask he looks like a tired, disheveled mess. This morning, thanks to a lack of sleep, there’d been bags under his eyes in addition to his now-fading bruises. “You wanna tell me what this mission is all about now?” Peter says, deflecting attention. “Is that what this is, a briefing?”

“Nope!” Deadpool sounds like he’s probably grinning beneath his mask. “The mission is a surprise! Don’t you just love surprises? It’s like Christmas!”

“But you promise it’s nothing shady?”

“Yes, Spidey. God. It’s like you don’t trust me or something. But I’d never lie to you. Mislead you, maybe. Fib a little here and there. But lying’s not my bag, you dig?”

“Well that’s reassuring,” Peter deadpans.

If Deadpool picks up on the sarcasm, he doesn’t let on. “Yeah, so, no worries. No one is gonna get hurt today. I promise. I know you’ve got a reputation to uphold and all that.”

Peter pops the last of his cone into his mouth and tugs his mask back down, choosing not to comment. He just hopes he’s doing the right thing here.

-

The house Deadpool leads him to is a bit on the run down side and decidedly not in the nicest part of town. But there are discarded toys on the lawn and children playing further down the street. Peter’s spidey sense is quiet and he has no reason to suspect a trap.

“Damn, looks like we missed the party,” Deadpool murmurs.

The sun is fully set now, leaving them and their surroundings illuminated only by a lone street lamp and what little moonlight can creep through the clouds. Deadpool pulls him to a stop in the middle of the front lawn, fingers curled around his wrist. The touch lingers as he explains, quickly, all in one breath, “The older one is Emily, the younger one is Sarah. It’s Emily’s birthday today. All _you_ have to do is smile and play nice. That’s the mission. Got it? Got it.”

Peter blinks. “I- what? What are you-“

“Oh, and here,” Deadpool adds, shoving a small, wrapped gift into his hands. “You’ll need this.”

The present is way too big to fit into one of Deadpool’s pouches. “Where were you even hiding that?” Peter asks, mildly disturbed at the possibilities.

The porch light flicks on and the front door squeaks open. “Who’s there?” calls a woman’s voice, high and nervous.

The pressure of Deadpool’s hand on his wrist is gone and, Peter is unsurprised to find when he turns back, so is Deadpool. Peter could easily make himself disappear as well- the woman hasn’t even seen him yet. But if this is how Deadpool wants the debt repaid then so be it.

Peter clears his throat and steps forward into the light. He puts on his best _hero voice_ (they all have one, even if people like Tony Stark would deny it). “It’s just me,” he says. “Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

“Oh, my god,” says the woman, swinging the door wide and squinting at him. She has her blonde hair pulled up in a messy, drooping bun and there are dark circles under her eyes. But after a quick study of his suit she looks genuinely amazed- and pleased- to see him. “Is it really you?”

“The one and only,” he assures her.

“Oh- hang on. Let me fetch the girls. Come, come, wait by the door,” she instructs, the wariness gone completely from her voice, replaced by excitement. “Emily, Sarah!” She disappears for a moment around the corner, and returns not five minutes later, this time accompanied by two young girls. The oldest- Emily, Peter presumes- couldn’t be more than seven or eight, while the youngest looks about five. They’re wearing matching blue and white checkered dresses and have their hair pulled into pigtails. Sarah’s face is streaked with dirt.

Sarah is the first to react to his presence. She gasps, comically huge, and launches herself at him. “It’s you!” she squeals.

Peter intercepts the would-be hug to twirl her around, which sets her off giggling. “Hello, Sarah,” he greets once he sets her down, kneeling so they’re at eye level. “And Emily.”

Emily is staring, eyes wide. She tiptoes forward slowly, like she isn’t sure she’s allowed. Peter presents her with the gift. “I heard it’s your birthday today.”

It’s her turn to gasp. She takes the present in a hurry but then takes care when she removes the bow. She casts around for where to put it before she decides to stick it to the front of her own dress. The wrapping paper itself doesn’t receive the same consideration. As she tears into it to get at the gift, Peter silently prays it isn’t anything too weird. Or dangerous. Or lethal. But these are kids. Surely even Deadpool wouldn’t hurt a kid?

His faith in the mercenary is rewarded when Emily discards the last of the paper and removes a small book. Peter isn’t able to get a glimpse of the title but Emily seems thrilled. She clutches it to her chest, looking awed. “How did you know?” she asks.

“I’m Spider-Man,” seems the only fitting explanation.

Emily nods, like this makes perfect sense. She hugs him, one small arm wrapped around his shoulders. “Thank you, Spider-Man.”

“You’re our favorite hero!” Sarah declares once Emily steps back. She wraps her tiny fingers around his thumb and tugs him toward the door. “You have to come have cake!”

Their mother laughs. She’s looking warmly at the three of them from the doorway. “Sarah, you have to ask if he _wants_ cake.”

Sarah nods. She looks up at him with big, blue eyes and asks very seriously, “Do you want cake, Spider-Man? We have a ton of leftovers.”

“Oh, um…” Peter casts around, looking for Deadpool. But the man is still nowhere to be found. “I should really-“

Emily is still holding the book like she’s never going to let it go. “Please?” she says simply.

Peter folds immediately. “Alright, I guess I have a little free time.”

Sarah cheers and Emily lights up and Peter feels pretty damn good about his decision.

“I have some questions about the webs,” Sarah says seriously as she drags him into the house.

-

Deadpool is waiting on the street for him when he exits the house some twenty minutes later, full of cake and having been thoroughly questioned about everything from his choice of color scheme to the inner workings of the criminal mind and back around to his favorite boyband. Deadpool is just a silhouette against the night sky until Peter reaches him. He’s twirling a knife between his fingers. Every so often the blade catches the light.

For a moment, when Peter draws even with him, they just stand there looking at each other. It’s Peter who breaks the silence. “I’m pretty sure Sarah is going to be President one day,” he says.

Deadpool hums his agreement. “She’s smart as whip, that one.”

“Wanna tell me what that was all about now?”

With one last flick of his wrist, Deadpool makes the knife vanish. “Thanks, Spidey,” he says, ignoring the question. “Knew you’d be good with kids. You just have that vibe, you know? Just screams _kid friendly_ and _PG_.”

“Seriously,” Peter presses, trying not to let him weasel his way out of answering. “Who was that family? Was that- wait. Are you their _dad_?”

Deadpool holds up his hands, vigorously shakes his head. “No, no no no. No kids in this universe. Uh, that I know of, anyway. If there is one, we haven’t met yet.”

“Okay… so who were they?”

Deadpool scratches at his chin through the mask. “They’re… I used to know their dad,” he says slowly, probably debating with himself as he goes about what exactly he should reveal. “He was in Weapon X with me. He… told me a lot about them before he died, and I know since he’s been gone they’ve had it pretty rough. I just figured having their favorite super hero drop by would be nice.” He shrugs.

“And the book?”

“Um.. he used to read it to her, when she was little. Like a bed time story or something. But they lost their copy when they moved.”

“Huh,” Peter says, briefly at a loss.

“Yep,” Deadpool says, popping the p. He turns on his heel and starts off down the sidewalk.

Peter, trailing a short distance behind, studies the line of Deadpool’s shoulders and finds himself, for the first time, actually curious about the mercenary’s past. He’d thought he knew everything he needed to know- that Deadpool was a part of Weapon X, that he had a healing factor to rival that of Wolverine, that he was scarred and psychologically damaged (to say the least about his fluctuating mental state). But now he’s thinking maybe those are all just facts on a page. They don’t really tell him anything about who Deadpool is, at his core, or what he’s been through.

“So you can consider us even now,” Deadpool says into the ensuing silence.

Peter jogs a bit to catch up. “Hey,” he says, deliberately bumping their shoulders together. “You know I’d have done that for free. All you had to do was tell me what the deal was.”

Deadpool shakes his head. “Spider-Man doesn’t have time to visit every little girl or boy that wants to meet him. I know you’re a busy guy, what with all the world saving and crime stopping.”

“Still. I’d have done it.”

“Nah. Not many heroes who’d do a favor for the ‘merc with a mouth’,” here he employs air quotes. “It’s cool, though. It all worked out.”

“I would have,” Peter insists. “I’d have done it anyway. Which means…” He pauses, bites his lip. Then plows on. “Which means we’re still not even. That wasn’t a favor for you, Deadpool, that was a favor for them.”

“Same thing-“

“It’s not! So I still owe you.”

Deadpool looks at him. “So I still have a spider-favor to cash in?”

“Yeah. But still, you know, no killing. No merc business. But if you ever need my help with something that’s _not_ terrible…”

Deadpool kicks at a pebble that’s in their path and sinks momentarily into thought. He hums. “So, like, how good are you at video games? Because I’m stuck on this one level of Mario 64-“

Peter laughs and nudges him with an elbow. “I’m serious!”

“So am I!” Deadpool insists, nudging him right back. “I figure, hey, you’re dextrous, you’ve got great reflexes, probably have really good hand eye coordination…”

“Sadly, being bitten by a radioactive spider didn’t make me magically good at video games. I mean, I’m alright, but my aunt still kicks my butt at wii bowling.”

“I bet you’re a huge nerd in real life,” Deadpool declares, seemingly out of nowhere, snickering. “Aren’t you? In the suit you’re this super suave, super smooth hero with the ass of a god, but out of the suit- well, I assume you still have an ass that needs worshipping, unless that suit’s padded- _please_ tell me it’s not padded-“

“It’s not,” Peter glowers, shielding his ass from Deadpool’s wandering eyes with his hands. He’s often grateful for the mask, especially in times like these when he needs to hide a blush. It’s been a while since he’s had anyone flirt so blatantly. Since Gwen, his love life has been a series of sad first dates and not much else.

“Hey, you said I was allowed to ogle,” Deadpool pouts.

The remark surprises a laugh out of him. “I _didn’t_ say that,” he reminds. “I just meant I’m not jailbait-“

“And thank god for that,” Deadpool cuts in. Then he says, all in one breath, “Then I’d have to feel _real_ bad about the dreams I’ve been having. Oops, did I say that out loud? Ignore that. Dreams, what dreams? No one is having any dreams.”

“I… I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered,” Peter muses.

“Both?” Deadpool suggests.

“Both,” Peter decides. They reach an intersection and, for the first time, Peter realizes he doesn’t actually know where they’re going. He isn’t sure Deadpool even knows.

He also realizes he’s not in an hurry to leave, which is troubling.

“Hey,” Deadpool says, scuffing the toe of his boot along the ground. “Do you wanna maybe grab a bite to eat? I know this great place not far from here, best chimichangas I’ve ever fucking eaten.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, presumably toward said restaurant. 

Peter knows it’s getting late and he definitely has housework that needs doing, not to mention the studying and sleeping he needs to catch up on. And it goes without saying that Spider-Man shouldn’t be seen in the company of Deadpool too often. But his mouth runs away from him and he’s agreeing before he really means to.

He finds he’s not that sad about it. It’s worth it for the ridiculous little happy dance Deadpool does. Peter is pretty sure he’s smiled more with Deadpool in the last couple of days than in the last couple of years combined.

The mercenary slings an arm around him and directs him down the sidewalk. If Peter leans into him just a little instead of pulling away, well. No one needs to know. There’s no rule that says he can’t be nice to Deadpool, right? 

“You’ll love it,” Deadpool promises, fingers curled over Peter’s shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter is supposed to be writing a paper.

He’d started off in his apartment but, aside from a couple of brief outings as Spider-Man, he’d been cooped up there all weekend. A change of scenery had been in order, which is why he’d relocated to the coffee shop right down the road. It was Monday, mid-morning, so the place wasn’t too crowded and it had just enough background noise to put Peter at ease but not drown out his thoughts. He’d started off strong, with caffeine in his system and a single-minded determinedness to finish this god forsaken paper.

Then Deadpool had walked in about thirty minutes later and his focus was immediately waylaid.

The mercenary was dressed in a jacket that was zipped nearly to his chin, hood pulled up to cover his head, but underneath that he was wearing his full costume. He was hard to miss. At first, Peter wasn’t the only one staring. Everyone had turned to watch as Deadpool approached the counter, ordered his drink from an only slight-terrified looking barista, fumbled in one of his many pouches for the right change, and then took a seat at a corner table, facing the door.

Facing _Peter_ , actually, though Peter felt sure that was a coincidence. Eventually everyone silently and mutually decided to ignore his presence and went back to their business. Not Peter, though, who couldn’t help glancing over every two seconds, wondering why Deadpool had somehow wound up at this _this_ coffee shop. And also wondering, for that matter, why Deadpool was even still in New York at all. He was notorious for never staying in one place longer than it took to complete a mission there.

Come to think of it, Peter had no idea why Deadpool had come to New York in the first place. He should probably find out before Deadpool could cause the kind of trouble he was infamous for. It hadn’t come up the last time they’d seen each other. They’d been too busy stuffing their faces with chimichangas. Or Peter had, anyway. Deadpool had talked a lot- a _lot_ \- and pointedly avoided eating so long as there was a chance Peter might see his face.

Now, every so often, from the corner of his eye, Peter catches Deadpool taking a sip of his coffee, mask pushed up to his nose. But it’s impossible to tell anything about his features from this distance. Doesn’t stop Peter from trying, though. His curiosity has always been a force to be reckoned with. And the harder Deadpool tries to hide himself, the more curious Peter becomes.

“Do I have something on my face, kid?”

Peter jumps. Actually, _physically_ jumps, which is embarrassing. Deadpool is suddenly looming over him. Peter hadn’t seen him get up from his seat. He’s very tall. Very broad shouldered. That’s easy to forget when Peter is also in costume and not playing the part of defenseless nerd.

“Uh, no,” he stammers, hoping and praying Deadpool won’t somehow recognize him. “I was just-“

“Staring,” Deadpool says with obviously fake cheer. He pulls out a chair and sinks down into it in one smooth movement. He leans forward, deliberately putting himself in Peter’s personal space and- ah, yes. There’s that gunpowder smell that always seems to accompany him. “Do we have a problem?”

He’s never sounded like this when he’s talking to Spider-Man. Borderline dangerous. “No- not at all,” Peter says carefully, refusing to be daunted. He closes his laptop. “I was just… admiring your costume.”

The flattery works like a charm. In an instant the threatening aura is gone. Deadpool leans back, spreads his hands. “Oh, this old thing?” he teases. “Thanks, pal. Made it myself.”

Peter nods. “Yeah, ‘s nice, but if you were going for incognito…”

Deadpool leans forward again, this time to prop his elbows on the table. People around them are starting to stare once more, maybe wondering why the masked merc has taken an interest in the skinny dweeb. Better Peter Parker be seen with him than Spider-Man, though. At least their picture is less likely to be published on a front page this way.

“Incognito?” Deadpool says. “No, see, I don’t get to be incognito. Ever. In costume, out of costume- people stare. Or, depending on how well they know me, they run screaming. Or, if they have good taste, they start swooning and dropping their panties. But you see the problem.”

“You draw attention?” Peter ventures, attempting to hide his smile and doing a poor job of it. The smile only seems to encourage Deadpool, who nods happily.

“Right. Too much attention. Sometimes a guy just wants to grab a coffee and not be gawked at, you know?”

Peter does know. Or, at least, he can imagine. He’s glad he’s lucky enough to be able to preserve his secret identity. He doesn’t know what he’d do if we was constantly being hounded like Tony Stark or Steve Rogers. Or, he supposes, Deadpool. “Sorry if I… gawked…”

“ _You_ ,” Deadpool says, hooking his foot around the leg of Peter’s chair and pulling it closer. Metal scrapes against hardwood. “Have permission.” He waggles his eyebrows. Somehow Peter just knows that’s what he’s doing, even though his mask barely moves. “You’re cute, kid. Real cute. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Not anyone wearing a mask,” Peter replies honestly. There’s a blush creeping over his cheeks, he can feel it. It’s silly. It’s just Deadpool. The same guy who’s been hitting on him since they met. But now he’s talking to _Peter_ , not Spider-Man. Maybe that makes a difference.

“What’s your name?” Deadpool asks. His ankle is pressed against Peter’s under the table. Does he know? Is he doing it on purpose? Peter doesn’t pull away, lest he draw attention to it. “Tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

“It’s… Peter. Peter Parker.” No sense lying. Or maybe Peter just doesn’t want to.

“Wade Wilson,” Deadpool says. Then, he claps. “Yay, alliteration buddies! I think this means we’re soulmates.”

Peter already knew Deadpool’s name, of course. He suspects most people in his line of work would. He’s just never been given permission to use it. Or does this count? Would it be weird for Spider-Man to start calling him Wade?

Peter shakes his head, mostly at himself. “Kinda getting ahead of yourself there, pal,” he says, in reference to both of them.

“You’re right. My heart belongs to someone else, anyway. Doesn’t mean I can’t treat a cute guy to coffee though, eh?” Deadpool abruptly stands. Amidst protests from Peter, he produces a few crumpled bills and sets them on the table. “Nice meeting you, Petey. Don’t worry about the money. I’m filthy fucking rich.”

Peter blinks up at him. Clearly, his protests are going to go ignored, then. “Um, nice to meet you too, Wade.”

Wade salutes him on his way out the door, cocky swagger to his hips.

Peter stares at the money for several minutes after he leaves. Deadpool is a whirlwind. Peter finds it hard to keep up. But he’s having a lot of fun trying.

He winds up leaving all the money Wade gave him in the tip jar. It would feel wrong to spend it himself.

-

“Oh, honey, what happened to your face?”

Peter shrugs and attempts to wiggle his way out of Aunt May’s hands but she holds him tight, turning his head this way and that, probably looking for other blemishes. “Nothing, nothing. Just- tripped the other day. No big deal.”

Truth be told, he’d been in a little scrap as Spider-Man just this morning. Now, he’s cursing himself for forgetting to throw a little concealer on the newly formed bruise adorning his jaw. He’d been in a hurry, though. His lunches with Aunt May are something he tries never to be late for. She’s big on punctuality.

“You? Trip? Peter, I don’t believe that for a second. You’re as graceful as a ballerina, child.”

“Normally, sure,” Peter says, sticking to his lie. He finally manages to shake off her hold on him and ducks past her into the kitchen. “I brought cookies. For dessert.” He holds up the box. As far as subject changes go, it’s pretty thin. Aunt May gives him a look that says she isn’t buying it for a second and, bless her, lets it pass. She takes the box from him with a smile. “I was gonna get flowers, too,” he continues. “But then I, um. Forgot. Next time, though.”

“Next time,” she agrees, mirth dancing in her eyes. “There’s the Peter I know and love. So forgetful. I can forgive you, though. I know you’re busy. Studying hard, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Aunt May,” he assures her, rolling his eyes affectionately. “Nothing has changed since last week when I was here. Still in school, still living in the same apartment, still taking pictures for the Bugle, still single.”

She swats him lightly on the arm. “You’ve ruined it, Peter! What on earth are we going to make small talk about now?”

Despite her teasing, they find no shortage of things to talk about throughout lunch. They keep it light, each avoiding touchy subjects like Uncle Ben or Gwen or anything to do with money. But Peter knows Aunt May likes to save anything that might be deemed controversial for after the meal and today is, of course, no different. Just as Peter is finishing the last bite of his sandwich she says, gently, “So, still single, hm?”

Peter sighs, bracing himself for whatever she might say next. Usually it’s a diatribe on how he shouldn’t force himself to be alone forever for Gwen’s sake. Not that he’s doing any such thing. He loves Gwen and probably always will but it’s not about that. It’s about not making the same mistake twice. As long as he’s Spider-Man, having a serious relationship seems pretty out of the question. “Yep. Still single.”

Today, Aunt May places her hand atop his where it rests on the table. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?” she asks, brow furrowed. “If you met someone?”

Peter gets an unbidden image of Deadpool, sitting beside him on a rooftop, haloed by the setting sun. He’s not sure why. He shakes his head to clear the image. “Of course, Aunt May. Anyone I met would have to pass the May test.” He smiles. “If you don’t like them, they aren’t relationship material, right?”

“You’ve got that right,” she chuckles, reaching out to pinch his cheek. “No one is _really_ good enough for my Peter but they’ve got to at least come close.”

Peter thinks she’ll let it drop after that but instead her expression again turns dour. “It’s just- I wonder what you _do_ , Peter. It can’t all be studying and work, can it? Do you just stay cooped up in your apartment? Do you have friends? I never hear about any friends.”

Peter does, in fact, have friends. He used to have more but it turned out most of those were actually Harry’s friends and after he jumped off into the deep end and went all green goblin they just sort of… vanished. One by one. Now he’s left with a couple of friends from work and MJ, who still keeps in touch even after their brief, failed try at a relationship. It’s enough. Peter doesn’t long for companionship- he isn’t _lonely_. Usually. But he doesn’t know how to make Aunt May understand that.

He pats her hand. “You don’t need to worry about me,” he tries to assure her. “I’m fine. Everything is fine. And I’m happy being single.”

She hums, looking doubtful. “Well, as long as you’re happy.”

He is. Mostly.

He thinks again of Deadpool. Of Wade. Wonders idly what the mercenary might be doing right now. Then remembers it’s probably something Not Good and frowns down at his empty plate. So Deadpool makes him laugh. He’s still Deadpool and therefore not someone Peter should consider a friend. Definitely not someone Peter should be eager to see again.

And yet.

-

Peter hears Deadpool before he sees him. He’s on patrol- nearing the end of it, actually, and is just about to swing his way home- when a shout catches his attention and he changes direction, heading towards it and bracing himself for trouble.

He arrives on the scene just in time to see Deadpool pull a gun and shoot a fleeing man in the leg, sending him sprawling. Deadpool jogs over to him, retrieves something from the downed man, and jogs back to a woman cowering in the shadows. She takes whatever is it he offers to her, thanks him, and scrambles out of the alley, back to the safety of the public street. She walks quickly, with her head down. Deadpool turns his attention back to the wounded man, starts to advance on him with purpose. His fists are clenched by his sides.

Peter drops down gracefully in front of Deadpool, halting his progress. Deadpool doesn’t seem surprised to see him but he does seem pleased. His stance instantly loosens. “Oh, hey, Spidey! Don’t mind me, just helping out.” He takes another step forward.

Peter places a palm flat against his chest, stopping him once more. “We need to call that man an ambulance,” he says, hopefully in a tone that brooks no argument. “And then you can explain to me why you shot him.”

Peter isn’t sure why, but _that_ seems to surprise Deadpool. “Ah,” he says. Then, simply, “Alright.”

Deadpool does as instructed. He pulls a phone out of one of his pouches, dials 911, explains to them that “some douchebag” has been hurt and they better get there pronto. Peter approaches the man just long enough to verify that he is, in fact, still alive, and not likely to bleed out anytime soon, even if he can’t currently walk. Peter would like to believe that’s not an accident. He’d like to believe Deadpool chose his shot with care and was deliberately non-lethal. He tries not to think too hard about _why_ that’s so important to him.

“There, done,” Deadpool announces, snapping the phone closed. “Now for the second thing-“

“Wait. Let’s get out of here before that ambulance gets here.” Peter steps close to the mercenary, whose first instinct is to recoil when Peter places his arm around him. Then he seems to understand and settles into the hold, even laughs. “Hold on,” Peter instructs.

Deadpool does just that while Peter slings them up to the nearest roof. As soon as his feet are back on solid ground he releases Peter. Only to latch back on a moment later, hands wrapped around Peter’s forearms, as if to keep him from getting too far away. He breathes, excited, “That was amazing, holy shit. You’re so _strong_ , Spidey. I want web shooters!”

Deadpool’s excitement is infectious but Peter’s smile is quick to fade. “I need to know why you shot him,” he reminds, voice level. “Were you trying to kill him?”

Deadpool doesn’t seem in any hurry to let go of him. In fact, his hold tightens. “What? No, no- I just had to stop him. I caught him hitting that girl. He tried to take her purse. I was- I was doing a good thing. He deserved more than that, though. He deserved a beating of his own. Fucking scumbag. She was pregnant, you know? Who robs a pregnant lady? That’s some seriously bad karma-“

“Wade,” Peter interrupts. He tries to sort through his mixed feelings of relief and apprehension. “I’m… glad. That you helped her. And that you didn’t kill him.”

Deadpool nods, once. There’s a pause. Then he says, slowly, “You’ve never called me that before.”

Peter can feel the tips of his ears burning as he realizes his mistake. “Uh… Sorry. I didn’t mean-“

“No,” Deadpool says. He’s standing very close, radiating warmth. Peter has to tilt his head up to look him in the eye. “It’s- it’s fine. It’s nice. I like it. I wondered if you knew my name. I figure the Avengers have a file or two on me, eh?”

“I’m not an Avenger,” Peter gently reminds. “If they have a file, I’ve never seen it.”

There aren’t many quiet moments with Deadpool. In fact, this is one of the first that Peter has experienced. For a moment neither of them speaks. Peter has just enough time to realize there are butterflies in his stomach before Deadpool- _Wade_ \- steps away, releasing him.

“And, um, thanks,” Wade says, palming at the back of his neck. He studies the ground. “For not just, you know. Showing up and assuming I was in the wrong. Most people would’ve. Hell, most people _do_.”

Peter swallows. “I, um. I try to give everyone a fair shake. You’ve been here a couple of weeks now and you haven’t caused any trouble, so.” He shrugs.

“Right.” Wade perks up. “I kinda like it here, you know? New York isn’t so bad.”

“I like it quite a bit myself,” Peter agrees. _God_ is he glad he wears a mask. He’s pretty sure his face is doing some dopey fond thing- and not in regards to his city. This is bad. He sends up a silent prayer that none of the Avengers- or, for that matter, the X-Men- ever get wind of this.

“So you don’t mind if I hang around a bit?” Wade asks. Before Peter can even open his mouth, Wade drops dramatically to his knees, hands clasped in front of him. “Please, please, please? I promise I’ll be good! I don’t wanna go back- too many bad memories. And all the other heroes hate me, it’s terrible. Don’t know a good thing when they see it. You’re the only one with any sense, Spidey.”

By the end of his rant, Peter’s shoulders are shaking with laughter. “You’re ridiculous,” he decides. “But yeah, you can stay. If you _promise_ to be good. That means no killing.”

Wade pouts. “Even if they really deserve it?”

“Even if _you think_ they really deserve it, yes.”

“Fine,” Wade agrees with a sigh, relenting surprisingly easily.

“Besides,” Peter adds, offering him a hand up. “I still owe you that favor.”

“So you do,” Wade agrees, sounding mischievous. “I’ve never had a hero in debt to me before. I can’t waste this golden opportunity.”

Peter holds up a finger. “Nothing-“

“Morally ambiguous,” Wade finishes for him, waving a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll put you to good use.”

Pause. “Sounds dirty,” Peter says.

Wade chuckles. He drapes an arm over Peter’s shoulders and whispers into his ear, “Only if you want it to be.”

Peter shrugs him off, blushing again. Damn it. “Mind out of the gutter,” he scolds.

“Hey, you’re the one who went there first,” Wade points out.

Peter shakes his head but he can’t argue the point.

They wind up walking back to Wade’s apartment together. Wade blows him a kiss farewell and decrees this the “start of a beautiful friendship”.

Peter is just worried he’ll come to regret his decision.


	4. Chapter 4

“Lookin’ good, Spidey. And by ‘good’ I actually mean terrible. And by ‘terrible’ I mean damn fine but a little scorched around the edges. Get into a fight with a toaster?”

Peter picks grumpily at a blackened portion of his suit. “Electro,” he says, which is enough explanation.

Wade hops down from his perch atop the nearest dumpster. He looks past Peter, finally seems to notice the scores of police cars and general destruction and mayhem that Spider-Man’s fight with Electro left behind. How he could’ve possibly been oblivious to it before is a mystery to Peter. “Shit. I missed it? Would’ve been the perfect opportunity for a team up!”

“I handled it,” Peter says. He’s sore and tired and mostly he just wants to go home and collapse into bed but he _can’t_ because he promised he’d have dinner with MJ and he can’t cancel on her again. That would be the third time in a row and at that point it just becomes suspicious. And super rude. His Aunt taught him better than that.

“Aw,” Wade coos. “Is someone a grumpy little spider today?” He pokes Peter’s exposed ribcage. This suit has enough holes in it that there probably won’t be any fixing it, even with Peter’s quite frankly amazing sewing skills. “Does someone need a nap? Oooh, or a hug?”

“I’m not grumpy,” Peter says, aware that he sounds the exact opposite. He swats at Wade’s hand. “I’m just- I need to get out of here before the cops decide they want a word.”

“Right. I getcha. My place isn’t far, you know. You could crash there for a while if you wanted. As long as you promise not to snoop. I know it’s no five-star hotel but the couch is pretty comfy and I’ve got air fresheners.”

“Do you?” Peter wonders, trying to remember what the place had smelled like. Not air fresheners, that’s for sure. At the time it had mostly smelled like tacos, if he recalls correctly.

“They’re new,” Wade says, doing jazz hands.

The offer is actually pretty tempting. Not only does he know Wade’s place is pretty cozy but he’s also aware of the fact that Wade’s presence would, undoubtedly, cheer him up. When the man went from being a mysterious nuisance to a source of- of _happiness_ , Peter isn’t sure. It’s annoying and unexpected and if MJ ever found out Peter was thinking about bailing on her so he could spend time with a sword-wielding maniac, she’d kill him.

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “I- I can’t. The suit. I wanna change. And I’ve got… plans.”

“Plans? What kinda plans? What does Spider-Man do with his free time, hm?” Wade’s shoulders slump as something occurs to him. “Is it a date? I bet it’s a date.”

Peter laughs. It’s humorless. “Definitely not a date. Haven’t been on one those in a _while_.”

Wade perks up. He shoots a finger gun at Peter, complete with little _pew pew_ noises. “We could fix that any time, pal.”

“What, you know someone?” Peter deadpans.

“You can’t see it,” Wade tells him seriously. “But I am rolling my eyes _so hard_ right now.”

Peter has to laugh at that- genuinely, this time. “It’s just a friend,” he assures him, not sure why he’s even bothering. “A friend date, I guess. One that I am going to be seriously late for if I don’t leave _right now_.”

Wade holds up his hands. “Don’t let me keep you, princess. You know I love watching you walk away.”

“Too bad I won’t be walking,” Peter quips.

He hears Wade wolf whistle as he slings himself toward the nearest rooftop. The grin on his face lingers far longer than it has any right to.

-

Peter is underdressed. He knows he’s underdressed as soon as he steps out of the cab. Leave it to MJ to pick somewhere exceedingly fancy for dinner- exceedingly fancy and probably exceedingly expensive, too, as if either of them can really afford it. But, Peter tells himself, it’s just MJ. She won’t care if he’s not wearing a tie and at least she’ll understand when he orders the cheapest thing on the menu.

Of course, as soon as he has the thought, Peter rounds the corner and spots MJ at a central table. MJ _and_ a girl Peter’s never met before.

She’s beautiful, with smooth, dark skin, big, expressive eyes, and soft, black hair that falls in loose curls over her shoulders. She’s the kind of pretty that’s intimidating. Peter used to think that about MJ, too, though, and now the two of them are good friends.

It’s with some trepidation that Peter approaches the table. MJ’s eyes light up as soon as she sees him. “Peter!” she says happily, standing to greet him. She wraps him in a loose hug that he barely has time to return before she whirls around and gestures at her friend. “Peter, this is Marisol. Marisol, Peter. I hope it’s okay that I asked her to join us, Pete. This is her favorite restaurant, so I thought, why not-“

“It’s fine,” Peter assures her, aware that he sounds brusque but unable to help it. Of all the days for MJ to spring this on him, she couldn’t have picked a worse one. He’s exhausted from his fight with Electro and the last thing he wants to do is try to impress a girl. “Nice to meet you, Marisol,” he says. He turns to MJ. “A word?”

“Of course,” MJ says, confusion evident. “Be right back!” she calls to Marisol over her shoulder as Peter leads her away from the table. Marisol, for her part, gives a little wave, brow furrowed.

Unfortunately there’s nowhere to go that could be considered private, so Peter settles for being out of earshot. He puts his back to Marisol so the poor girl can’t see his borderline murderous expression. “I see what you’re doing here,” he tells MJ, voice low. “And I don’t appreciate it.”

MJ tries to feign innocence. “I don’t know what you mean, Pete. I just thought-“

“You just thought, hey, dinner with Peter, perfect opportunity to set him up with someone. And, let me guess, you were going to find some convenient excuse to duck out after the appetizers, leaving us alone? And then we would, what, magically fall in love?”

MJ is scowling now, offended. “I _thought_ it might be nice for you to meet someone new. That’s all.”

A metaphorical lightbulb flickers to life above Peter’s head. He points accusingly. “You’ve been talking to Aunt May, haven’t you?”

For a second it looks like MJ might try to deny it. But in the end she decides to go with the truth. “Yes,” she admits, tilting her chin up like she’s daring Peter to challenge her. “And she’s _right_. You need to put yourself out there! Even if it doesn’t work out romantically, you could always make some new friends.”

Peter groans, frustrated. “I don’t need new friends! And I don’t need you and Aunt May scheming behind my back!”

“Oh, don’t be a child, Peter. We aren’t _scheming_. Is it really going to hurt anything for you to sit down and have dinner with a pretty girl? No. Now put on your big boy pants and let’s go back to the table before she decides she’s fed up and leaves. Okay?”

Peter thinks about arguing some more. He even thinks about storming out. But none of this is Marisol’s fault, and she’s the only one whose feelings would get hurt if he left without an explanation.

“You do look pretty tired, Pete,” MJ notes. Concern colors her voice. “Have you been sleeping alright?”

Peter touches his own face. Great, something else to be self-conscious about.

He doesn’t dignify MJ with an answer. Instead, he turns on his heel and, fake smile plastered firmly in place, goes back to the table. MJ follows behind at a leisurely pace, giving Peter plenty of time to arrive before her and make their apologies.

Marisol takes it all in stride. She really is a lovely girl. Not just in looks but in manner. She’s graceful and elegant and smart and she laughs at Peter’s dumb jokes- and even supplies some of her own. So why, then, is Peter having to fake the cheer on his face? Why can’t he invest himself in the conversation? Why doesn’t he care, at the end of it all, whether or not she’s impressed with him?

“No chemistry,” he tells MJ after dinner, as the two of them wait for their cabs. “She’s beautiful, obviously, but. There was nothing there.”

“Seems like _she_ would disagree. She gave you her number, Peter.”

Peter absently fingers the scrap of paper in his pocket. He shrugs. There’s a pretty good chance he’ll never use it.

MJ huffs, annoyed. “It’s never going to work if you don’t at least _try_ , you know.”

“I shouldn’t have to _try_. I never had to try with Gwen. Or Harry. I never have to try with you. It just… comes naturally. Because there’s chemistry. Platonic or otherwise.”

MJ rolls her eyes hard enough that Peter is afraid she might dislodge them. “When are you going to stop comparing everyone to Gwen? No one else is Gwen. No one is ever going to measure up. But you can find something new, something different. Something just as good.” She thumps him on the shoulder. “But not if you keep dismissing everyone you meet as _not good enough_ the second you lay eyes on them!”

Peter rubs at his shoulder, wincing. MJ packs quite the punch. And she looks so unassuming, too. “Just please don’t set me up with anyone else without warning me first? Okay? Can we at least agree that’s a little underhanded?”

“Whatever,” MJ grumbles. “Anyone else would’ve been thrilled to walk in and see a girl like that sitting there.”

Peter really doesn’t want to acknowledge the truth of that.

-

Peter has a pretty well-kept routine, barring any Spider-Man issues that crop up. On Friday’s, he goes grocery shopping, which is exactly what he’s doing when Wade decides to make another appearance.

Wade is in civvies this time, aside from his usual mask and gloves, which remain firmly in place. Peter is starting to think they might be glued on. He’d test the theory if he didn’t think Wade would get royally pissed. And also there’s the whole invasion of privacy thing but damn if Peter isn’t dying to know what the mercenary finds so off-putting about his own face. It can’t be all that bad. And, even if it _is_ that bad and Wade is lacking skin or covered in festering boils or actually a leper, Peter already knows he wouldn’t run screaming, like Wade seems to think. Peter isn’t charmed by him because of what he does or doesn’t look like.

Actually, scratch that, Peter isn’t charmed by him at all. That would be weird. And bad.

He shakes his head, as if he can dislodge the thought entirely from his brain. It doesn’t work, but he decides to pretend it never occurred and forces himself to refocus on his grocery list, which mostly contains microwaveable meals and various flavors of ramen noodles. Aunt May would be disappointed in him.

Peter decides to try and grab his things and leave as quickly as possible, figuring that the less time Wade spends around him out of costume, the less likely he is to recognize Peter as Spider-Man. He almost makes it out without incident, too, but then he rounds the corner of an aisle and there Wade is, helping a petite elderly lady reach things on the top shelf. Peter’s first instinct it to retreat but the image of famed and deadly mercenary Deadpool helping tiny old people do things as mundane as grocery shop holds him enthralled long enough for Wade to spot him and then there’s no escape.

“Petey!” Deadpool shouts, pointing. He says something in hushed tones to the old woman that has her giggling behind her hand and then jogs over, excitement etched in every line of his body. “Remember me?” he asks, stopping a few feet in front of Peter. As if anyone normal would forget an encounter like the one they had in the coffee shop.

“Of course. Wade Wilson. Alliteration buddies.”

“You _do_ remember! Shit, what are the odds, right? This city is crazy big but we just keep bumping into each other. Must be fate!”

“I dunno,” Peter hedges. “It’s only happened twice…”

“You’re even cuter standing up,” Wade says, talking over him. Peter can’t see his eyes but he gets the distinct impression he’s being given a once over. The impression is solidified when Wade adds, “You work out? You’re pretty toned for a geek.”

“Sometimes.” Peter is suddenly hyper aware of how unkempt his hair is and how pale he is and the fact that there’s a stain near the bottom of his shirt. All things he doesn’t have to worry about as Spider-Man. Spider-Man never has stains. Peter shifts awkwardly on his feet. “What are you doing here, Wade?”

“As of two seconds ago, helping Martha reach the olives.”

“Martha?”

“Yeah. Nice old lady, three grandchildren and one on the way. Lost her husband last year. Plays bridge every Monday. Always wanted a pony. Just met her five minutes ago but it’s amazing what people will tell you once you get them talking.”

Peter blinks. “Right. Sure.”

“But if you were asking what I’m doing here _in general_ , well. Even heroes have to eat. And sadly I can’t _just_ eat tacos and chimichangas. I asked.”

“Who the hell did you ask?” Peter wonders.

Wade doesn’t answer. Instead, he leans in close. He seems to be studying Peter. Then he says, voice gone soft, “Your smile…”

Peter hadn’t been aware he was even smiling. Now that attention’s been drawn to it, it drops. “What about it?” he asks, defensive. Bracing himself for Wade to out him to the world as Spider-Man as a worst case scenario.

“Nooo, don’t stop,” Wade whines. He touches the corner of Peter’s mouth, very lightly. Peter stands very still. “It’s- it’s nice. You’re really… really…”

He trails off. Peter never gets to find out what he really is because Martha, having made it five more feet down the aisle, calls Wade’s name. Wade immediately straightens, touch disappearing. He shrugs apologetically. “Sorry, Petey. Duty calls.”

Peter wants to protest, wants to demand that Wade come back and finish that thought right this instant. What is he really? Really cute? Really entertaining? Really something? Of course, Peter doesn’t say anything. He just nods his understanding, hesitates just long enough to watch Wade skip down the aisle, and then takes his leave.

Peter just hopes he hadn’t been about to say _really familiar_.

-

As far as patrols go, this has been one of Peter’s quieter nights. It’s a nice night, too. The sky is clear, the moon is bright, the weather is perfect for web slinging. But tonight Peter almost wishes there were someone in need of rescuing or some problem to solve. It would spare him having to be alone with his thoughts, which have turned traitor on him. All he can think about is his encounter with Wade earlier today. He keeps turning it over and over in his head, then wondering why he cares so much, then getting _frustrated_ that he cares so much, and so on and so forth. It’s a never ending cycle.

It’s almost a relief when Wade shows up in the flesh.

“We have _got_ to stop meeting like this. On rooftops, I mean. It’s romantic and all but I have a helluva time getting up here.”

Peter doesn’t startle when Wade sidles up beside him and places a hand on his shoulder. He’d heard him coming. Though Peter suspects that was deliberate. He doubts very seriously that Wade would fail to sneak up on him if he really wanted to.

“You know, you’re a hard spider to find. You really should have a spider signal. Like the bat signal, with the giant fucking bat projected onto the clouds. Except yours would be a spider, obviously. Genius, right? Hold on- are we allowed to talk about Batman? Rival franchises and all.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Peter admits, “But it sounds like a dumb idea.”

Wade scoffs. “Fine. Get a pager or something then, Christ.”

“ _Pager_? What is this, the nineties?”

Wade tilts his head. “I don’t know, is it? ‘S hard to keep track. But that’s beside the point. The _point_ is, it’d be nice if I had a way to contact you.” He scuffs the toe of his boot along the ground, suddenly very interested in everything that isn’t Peter. “In case there’s any, uh. Emergencies. And whatnot.”

“In case of whatnot,” Peter parrots, watching him. “Right, makes sense.”

“What if I need to call in that favor, hm? What if I need to call in that favor _all the way from Bolivia_?”

Peter considers this. “Are you _going_ to Bolivia?”

“Well, no,” Wade admits. “But I am gonna be gone for a few days. Got a job. Can’t say where, though, then I’d have to kill ya. Wait. Am I allowed to say that? Is it funny when I say it, or scary? I can’t see your face, help me out here.”

Peter clears his throat. There’s a weird pang in his chest. He doesn’t like it. “Depends on whether or not you mean it, I guess,” he says. It sounds kind of hollow.

“I’d never kill you, Spidey.” He reaches over to pinch Peter’s cheek. Hard to do with the mask in the way but Wade doesn’t let that deter him. “You’re just too darn cute!”

Peter ignores him. “So… you’re leaving? For how long, exactly?”

“However long it takes to get the job done. Five days, tops. Probably. Maybe. Why? Is there a certain hero in red and blue spandex that’s gonna miss me while I’m gone?”

“You wish,” Peter says, but it sounds unconvincing even to him. He shouldn’t care. He knows he shouldn’t care. And, what’s more, he knows Wade is probably going off to kill someone in exchange for money. Why doesn’t that bother him like it used to? Maybe it’s just gotten a little too easy to pretend otherwise. They don’t talk about it and Wade doesn’t kill in front of him. Or in New York at all, as far as Peter can tell. His way of following the rules.

Wade bumps their hips together. “Aw, shucks. I won’t be gone long. Not since I just got your permission to hang around and all. I’ll be back to bother you before you know it!”

“That a promise?”

Maybe Wade picks up on Peter’s uncharacteristically somber tone because his own sobers to match it. “Told you, lying ain’t my bag. Not sure why you’d care, though. I figured you’d be happy to have me out of your hair. Like the other heroes.”

“Like you said, I’m the only hero with any sense.” It comes out quiet, nearly a whisper.

Wade chuckles, low. “That you are. I’m not used to anyone worrying about me, you know. I think I like it.”

“Worrying? Who’s worrying? I’m not worrying.” Peter realizes, rather abruptly, just how close the two of them are standing. It seems prudent to put some distance between them. “I’ll, um. I’ll find something,” he says, stepping back. “Some way for us to keep in touch. Just in case.”

“Just in case,” Wade agrees. Peter would swear he’s smirking under that mask. “We’ll work something out when I get back, yeah? Just don’t croak on me while I’m gone and we’re golden.”

“I’ll do my best,” Peter promises, marveling at how quickly he’s grown attached to someone that is so ridiculously off limits and should be impossible to like. It’s just his luck, he supposes.


	5. Chapter 5

Wade is gone for two weeks.

Peter tries not to think about it. At first, it’s easy. Spider-Man is kept busy. In the first five days alone he stops three attempted muggings, puts Rhino back where he belongs, foils one of Loki’s many plans for world domination with the Avengers, and helps Wolverine track down Mystique who, it turns out, is holed up in a penthouse suite under an assumed name with something valuable taken from Xavier’s school.

After that, though, things get quiet. And then six days have gone by, and then seven, and then ten, and by the thirteenth day Peter is officially concerned.

By the time he decides to swing by Wade’s apartment and check things out- just in case- he’s exhausted. Spider-Man spent the morning taking down Mysterio and the evening putting a stop to a pyromaniac with a homemade flamethrower. Peter spent all his free time in between working on a project that’s due in two days _and_ he’s had three sleepless nights in a row. He’s dead on his feet and he knows it, but he also knows he won’t be able to rest entirely easy until he’s sure that Wade is okay. He chooses not to examine too closely why exactly that might be.

There’s a light on in Wade’s window, which briefly gives him hope. Peter climbs up to the window with ease and finds it unlocked. That, too, gives him hope that Wade might be home after all. But the apartment is empty. Peter calls Wade’s name- he’s not there to sneak up on the man, after all, and in fact feels like that would be a very bad idea- and gets no reply. He searches every room and finds nothing but dust, furniture, and naturally accumulated clutter.

He hadn’t actually expected to find Wade at home but he’s still somehow disappointed. He sinks down on Wade’s couch with a heavy sigh and notes, idly, that the place _does_ smell nice. Like fresh linen. That would presumably be thanks to the air fresheners that Wade mentioned.

“Where are you?” he murmurs to himself, squinting accusingly at Wade’s TV. His own face is reflected back at him from the dark screen.

Peter thinks about getting up. He _means_ to get up and go home, he really does. But Wade’s couch is comfortable and it’s so _quiet_ and peaceful and he’s so _tired_ …

His nap is entirely accidental.

If he dreams, he doesn’t remember them.

He wakes sometime later to someone softly calling his name. Or, not _his_ name, but Spider-Man’s name. Over and over, growing more frantic with each repetition. Peter finally regains consciousness right around the time Wade is saying, “ _Please_ tell me you didn’t die on my couch. I’d never be able to explain that.”

Peter blinks his eyes open, becomes painfully aware of how his suit is sticking to him and how itchy his mask his. Then he realizes he’s still on Wade’s couch, head pillowed on the arm rest. Wade is kneeling on the floor beside him. His hand, heavy and warm, rests lightly on Peter’s bicep. He’s definitely not dead. Relief is the first thing Peter feels but hot on it’s heels is mortification. 

Peter groans. He places his hands over his face. He says, voice still rough with sleep, “Of _course_ you’d come home the _one night_ I just _happen_ to fall asleep on your couch like some creepy stalker.”

“Don’t worry,” Wade says. “I think it’s cute. In fact, this is probably the best thing I’ve ever come home to.”

Peter peeks out at him from between his fingers. Sometimes he really wishes he could see Wade’s face, read his expression. It’s selfish, that wish, especially when Peter knows he could never return the favor. “You… don’t want to know why I’m here?”

“Nah.” Wade squeezes his arm once, reassuring, and lets go. “I’m just gonna assume it’s because you were worried about me- which is stupid, by the way, even if it is flattering- or you missed me so much you… wanted to be surrounded by my shit for some reason? I didn’t think these through too hard but shhh, don’t tell me otherwise and ruin the fantasy, k?”

Peter’s brain is still working too slowly for him to come up with a suitable retort. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. What finally comes out is, “What _happened_ to you?” He props himself up on an elbow to get a better look.

Not only is Wade spattered with blood, there are holes torn in his suit. There’s one in particular that catches Peter’s eye, right at the curve of his neck.The skin revealed there is scarred and uneven and Peter is weirdly fascinated. He reaches out, stops just short of touching, pauses there. Wade doesn’t seem to be breathing. “Are… you okay?” Peter ventures, taking his hand back.

For a second, Wade is silent and perfectly still. Then, abruptly, he holds up his own hand, which has a bloody white towel wrapped around it. “I will be!” he chirps, sounding far too cheerful for someone who looks to have lost as much blood as he has.

“What happened?” Peter repeats, cringing on his behalf.

“Just had a little teeny tiny minor setback, no big deal. Not the first time I’ve had to regrow a limb, won’t be the last. But, hey, you should’ve seen the other guy. I look like a fucking treat compared to him, lemme tell ya.”

“Please don’t,” Peter mumbles.

Wade stands. Peter starts to rise with him, either to accommodate him on the couch or to leave, like he feels he probably should. Instead, Wade lifts Peter’s legs with his uninjured arm, plops himself down on the couch, and resettles Peter’s legs across his lap- a clear invitation to stay if there ever was one. Peter, hesitant, wills himself to relax back into the cushions. He watches the way Wade’s fingers curl casually around his ankle.

“You know you were gone for two weeks?” Peter presses. Wade’s suit is ripped along his thigh. The skin there is scarred, too.

“Was I? Well, you know what they say. Time flies when you’re yada yada- _oh_ , wait! That’s why you’re here! Because I was gone so long. Okay, I can work with that. That’s fine. But, you know, Spidey, you _really_ don’t have to worry about me.”

“I _wasn’t_ -“ Peter cuts himself off with a groan. “Ugh, whatever. See if I ever come check on you again.”

“So you were checking on me!” Wade does a victorious fist pump with his rag-wrapped hand. “Knew it! Well, my eight legged pal-“

“I don’t have eight legs. I very clearly don’t have eight legs-“

“-This should help put your mind at ease.” Wade wiggles around, jostling Peter, until he can get at a particular pouch. He pulls out an old flip phone, brandishes it with pride. “Ta-dah! It’s personalized and everything!”

Peter takes it. He flips it open and closed, and finally turns it around. “By ‘personalized’ I guess you mean you put a Deadpool sticker on the back?”

Wade’s reply is a thumbs up. “Mine has a tiny Spider-Man! Genius, right? It’s so we can keep in touch. In case of emergencies, like I said before. My number’s already programmed in.”

Peter slides his thumb around the edge of the small screen. “I’m… why did you- I said I’d figure something out, you didn’t have to do this.”

“I just figured- you have a secret identity, I don’t, so it’d be easier for me to get us phones and shit. This way no one can trace them back to you. Thoughtful, aren’t I? It’s okay, you don’t have to hide your swooning, I won’t let it go to my head.”

Peter chuckles. “Spider-Man doesn’t _swoon_. But… thanks. Now I can just text you like a normal person instead of breaking into your apartment.”

“Next time I might have to call the cops on you.” He gestures. “I think there’s a remote somewhere by your head and I’m pretty sure Star Trek reruns are on and we’re missing them.”

Peter fishes around blindly with his hand until it comes into contact with the remote. He’s just started flipping channels when Wade says, “Oh, and one more thing, Spidey. You usually sleep in your suit?”

Peter digs his heel into Wade’s leg. “Shut up,” he grumbles.

-

“Not so fast!”

The would-be assassin freezes, blade drawn and poised to finish off her quarry. She’s dressed like a dime store ninja, mask pulled up to obscure the lower part of her face. Her eyes watch him with no small amount of shrewdness. The scientist in her hold is so scared he looks like he might wet himself. Peter prays he at least waits until the fight is over.

“Let him go,” Peter orders, not at all surprised when the woman ignores him and raises her blade once more. Peter rolls his eyes. “They never listen,” he complains, mostly to himself. He fires web at her, intending to pull the blade from her hand, but she’s light on her feet. She flips backwards, dodging his every shot. He pauses, just for the barest of seconds, to reassess. She takes the opportunity to rush him. She moves like fluid and she’s on him before he knows it. He barely has time to swing himself out of the way and even then she manages to nick his leg, cutting through the fabric of his suit with ease.

From the safety of the rafters, he examines the cut. It’s not too bad. Long but not all that deep. He’s definitely had worse before.

She stands below, watching him. Pacing back and forth. The scientist has scrambled away, but she blocks the only exit from the room.

“That the best you got?” Peter calls down to her. “I’ve got a friend who wields a katana better than you in his sleep.”

Her voice, when she speaks, is high but rough like sandpaper and sounds like hissing. She has an accent but it isn’t one that Peter can place. “Does he also poison his blades?” she asks, faux-sweet.

Peter looks back down at the cut. “… You’re bluffing.”

She brandishes the sword. The edge is now adorned with his blood. “One hit. That’s all I ever need, little hero.”

He fires more web at her, which she dodges easily, but he uses her distraction as an opportunity to swing himself at her, intending to take her off her feet. She dodges that, too, and Peter starts to feel the effects of the poison right around the time he hits the ground. He rolls into standing, poised to counter any incoming blows, but she’s still just watching him, mirth dancing in her eyes. 

“Oh, no,” he mutters as his vision begins to go double. This is entirely too much like the time he was recently drugged, he thinks. His limbs already feel sluggish and heavy and his knees weak. This isn’t a feeling he wants to get used to.

“Don’t worry,” says the woman. “You were not part of the contract. In such a small dose my poison _probably_ won’t kill you. It will just incapacitate you long enough for me to finish the job I was sent here to do.”

Peter stumbles towards her, not sure what he intends to do but just knowing he has to do _something_.

A shot rings out, taking the woman in the shoulder and narrowly missing Peter himself. She cries out in pain and falls to one knee, sword abandoned. She clasps a hand over her new wound and looks around, confused and angry, but Peter already knows who it is even before Wade announces himself.

“Ah, there you are,” Wade says casually, sidling up to Peter. He twirls the gun around his finger. “My little damsel in distress.”

“I’m _not_ a- never mind.” He decides not to question how Wade knew where he would be or exactly the right moment to show up. Instead, he advances on the woman, despite the fact that he feels like his legs might give out from beneath him at any second. “Who sent you?” he demands to know. “Why kill this scientist?”

She grits her teeth and says nothing.

“Uh, honey,” Wade says, tapping him on the shoulder. “The cops are on their way. Shouldn’t we, you know, vamoose?” He levels the gun at the woman, finger on the trigger. “I can take care of this problem real quick.”

“ _Don’t_ kill her,” Peter snaps. The cut on his leg is burning now. It feels like it’s on fire.

“Fine,” Wade snaps back. “I’ll just make sure she can’t get up and follow us.” He fires before Peter can protest again, hitting the woman in the knee and knocking her on her ass. She screams, a sound of rage and hurt, and writhes uselessly on the floor.

“Now come on- whoa there, buddy.” Wade catches Peter as he sways nearly off his feet. “You’re a little unsteady. What happened? Wait, don’t tell me she cut you. I know this chick. Made a name for herself in the merc business by playing dirty.”

“I- yeah. Yeah, she did. So get me out of here before I embarrass myself.”

“Roger that.”

Peter refuses to be carried. He makes it most of the way outside by himself, and then has to clutch shamefully at Wade’s arm to make it the rest of the way. They’re already a block gone by the time the cops show up, sirens announcing their presence behind them. It’s slow going and with every step Peter feels the effects of the poison more and more.

“Since it doesn’t seem like you’re in any shape to do any web slinging,” Wade says, taking them down the next side street, putting them out of the eye line of any cops. “We’ll call a cab.”

“A cab? Dressed like _this_?”

“Yeah, I do it all the time. They’ll just think we’re cosplayers or something.”

“Coswhats?”

“Doesn’t matter. Point is, it’ll be fine.”

“You have _real weapons_ strapped to you.”

Wade shrugs. “New York cabbies,” he says, like that makes his point.

True to his word, they have no more trouble than usual getting a cab. The cab driver doesn’t so much as look at them sideways when they climb in. 

Peter rests his head against the window. The cool glass feels nice. It would feel nicer if he could remove his mask but he’ll take what he can get. “I guess I owe you double, now,” Peter says. Wade doesn’t reply. “You said you knew her? That woman?”

“Oh, not well. But we merc’s tend to keep tabs on each other. I mean, she is my competition, more or less. Hey, you’re not gonna die, are you? Should we be going to a hospital? Poisons are a little outside my purview.”

“No, no hospital. Don’t trust anyone there.” He closes his eyes against a wave of dizziness. “So, she was paid to kill him and probably didn’t even know why.” He hums, turning it over in his head. “He was probably crooked. Got on the wrong side of the wrong people. I don’t trust anyone at Oscorp anymore.”

“So why save him?”

“Whatever he did, he didn’t deserve to die for it.”

Wade is quiet for a moment. Then, “And her? She’s a paid killer. She’ll survive this and go right back to taking contracts.”

“She’ll survive this and go through the system.” Peter sighs. “People can change, Wade. Even people like her.”

Wade seems to have no retort for that. He lets it drop and the rest of the cab ride is spent in silence. Peter doesn’t even realize where they’re going until they are arrive outside Wade’s apartment building. Of course Wade would bring him here, though. Where else could they go?

They stumble up the stairs and in through the doorway, Peter limping and dizzy and Wade doing his best to support him without actually carrying him. Peter doesn’t know where he’s trying to go or what he’s trying to do, it just becomes abundantly clear all at once that he needs to sit down, _right now_ , or else topple over.

He tries to convey this to Wade by gesturing without actually letting go of him. He tugs, pulling Wade toward the couch while Wade tries to hold him steady. They fall, of course, right over the back of the couch and into a heap on the other side, half on the cushions and half on the floor. They’re still holding onto each other. Wade is laughing breathlessly.

“Come- Spidey, come here. Up and at ‘em,” he says, pulling Peter all the way onto the couch. Their legs are a tangled mess. Wade tries to separate, to drag himself out from under Peter, but Peter protests.

“No, no, no. Stop, stay,” he says, clinging, curling his fingers into the fabric of Wade’s suit. He rests his head on Wade’s chest and wills him to be still. “I’m- I’ll be fine, I’m just…” He trails off as Wade settles beneath him. Wade is so _warm_ and he smells masculine and familiar and Peter can hear his heartbeat, fast and a little erratic.

Peter doesn’t protest in the slightest when Wade winds his arms around him. He strokes his fingers down Peter’s spine, soothing. “It’s alright, baby boy, just get some rest. You’ll heal up in no time. This is nothing for the amazing Spider-Man, right? Shrug it off, kiddo, you’ll be fine.”

Peter isn’t sure if Wade is babbling for his own benefit or for Peter’s but Peter appreciates it either way. He can feel the vibrations of Wade’s voice through his chest. It pulls him under, lulling him to sleep. He’d swear that just before he drops off, Wade brushes a kiss against his temple, but maybe that’s just a dream.

-

There’s no confusion the next morning. Peter wakes up and he knows where he is and exactly how he got there. He’s in Wade’s living room, and that’s Wade breathing deep and even beneath him. Those are Wade’s arms wrapped around him. That’s Wade’s heartbeat in his ears, much slower and steadier, now.

The only surprise lies in the fact that Peter doesn’t want to move. Wade is firm and solid beneath him and Peter feels- warm and safe and surprisingly well-rested, all things considered. It should feel awkward, shouldn’t it? But it doesn’t. Not even when Wade begins to stir, waking slowly to the world around him. Peter doesn’t feel a need to run for the hills. Or even really a need to move, especially not when Wade’s hold on him only tightens as he wakes.

“Psst, Spidey, you awake?” Wade stage-whispers. He pokes the side of Peter’s face.

Peter nods. Wade sounds different in the morning. He absently files that information away.

“Oh, good. So you didn’t die after all. But what the fuck is it with you and my couch? Do- do spiders like couches? Is that a thing?”

Peter groans. He takes Wade’s nonsensical question as his cue to finally move. He rolls off the mercenary and into a sitting position on the floor. “I think,” he says slowly, taking note of the dull throb behind his eyes and the slight nausea making his stomach churn. “That I feel hungover. Which sucks, because I didn’t even get the fun part of being drunk.”

“Oooh, I bet that’d be fun. Drunk Spider-Man. You know, if you were legal.” Wade sits up. His mask went slightly askew at some point during the night but he fixes it quick enough. His gloves are missing, Peter notices. He isn’t sure if Wade lost them last night or removed them himself. “How’s your leg?”

Peter turns it over to examine the cut on his calf. “Well, it stopped bleeding,” he says. “But I should probably disinfect it before we wind up having to amputate.”

Wade stands and offers a hand up to Peter, who takes it gladly. “Come on, I’ve got stuff for that in the bathroom.”

“Disinfectant stuff? But I thought you didn’t need that kind of thing?”

“I don’t,” Wade agrees, and elaborates no further.

Wade’s bathroom is much like the rest of his apartment. Sort of dingy and cluttered but clean enough that Peter doesn’t have any qualms about hopping up on the counter when Wade directs him to.

Wade cleans the wound like he’s done it a thousand times before. First, he cleans around it with a wet rag, getting at all the dried blood that Peter’s suit will allow him to. He’s gentle. Surprisingly so. He even lets the water warm up a little before he takes it to Peter’s skin. He warns Peter before he pours the alcohol on but still says “sorry, sorry” when Peter hisses in pain. Finally, he tapes the bandage on with careful fingers, pressing lightly. At the end of it all he calls Peter a good patient and coos, “Do you want a lollipop?”

“I don’t think I want whatever lollipop _you’re_ offering,” Peter quips.

“Gutter mind,” Wade snipes back. He’s standing between Peter’s legs, now, arms braced on the countertop. Peter just really, _really_ wants to see his face. To read what he’s thinking there. To know the shape of his eyes and the curve of his smile. He doesn’t know why. It’s irrational and unfair but he can’t help it. He stares hard at Wade’s oh-so-familiar mask, tries to imagine what lies beneath it. But his imagination, he’s sure, doesn’t do the real thing justice.

Peter raises his hand slowly, makes no sudden movements. Wade still flinches, ever so slightly, when Peter’s fingers come to rest on the curve of his cheekbone. But then he stills beneath the touch and waits.

“Do you ever take it off?” Peter wonders. He touches Wade’s brow bone, follows it down to the slope of his nose.

“Not around you,” Wade answers honestly.

Peter places his fingers over Wade’s lips, then lets his hand drop. “Why not?”

Wade shakes his head. He creates space between them, backing up until Peter has room to hop down. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, dismissive. Then, “Do you wanna grab breakfast? I could really go for some pancakes.”

Peter lets him get away with the subject change, but not happily. “Sure,” he says, and decides that this may not be the worst morning he’s ever had.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter keeps checking his phone. Or, not his phone, the phone Wade gave him. He does it almost absently, pulling it from his pocket, flipping it open, then closed, then slipping it away again. He’d just- he’d thought that when Wade, notorious Spider-Man fanboy, got ahold of a way to contact him, he’d be hearing from the man nonstop. But so far- nothing. Actually, Peter hasn’t heard a peep out of him since their pancake breakfast two mornings ago. He’s not _worried_ but he is miffed.

Peter considers texting him first but... What if Wade doesn’t want to hear from him? What if Peter crossed some sort of line the last time they were together without even realizing it? What if Wade was serious about the whole _emergencies only_ thing? Why is Peter stressing over it like this?

As the elevator doors slide open, Peter slips the phone back into his pocket.

The Bugle is always a bustling place, even on an otherwise calm weekday. There are people walking briskly here and there, shuffling papers. There are faxes being sent and mouses being clicked and keys being typed and conversations being held, some louder than others. That’s why Peter doesn’t hear it at first. In fact, he doesn’t hear anything out of the ordinary until he’s a scant few feet from Jameson’s door.

“- fucking redact it! Redact it!”

Peter freezes. He listens harder.

“ _Redact_ -? Do you even know what that _means_ , kid? I can’t redact it! It’s out there! You can’t un-print what’s been printed!” That’s Jameson’s voice, sounding more annoyed than usual, which is an impressive feat. And Peter is pretty sure he recognizes the other voice as well, though he’s quietly hoping he’s wrong.

“You better find a way or I’ll…”

“You’ll _what_?” Jameson challenges.

“You better be real fucking glad that Spider-Man doesn’t want me killing. He’s the only goddamn reason your brains aren’t paste right now, you get me?”

Definitely Wade, then, sounding downright scary. It’s as if Peter conjured him there just by thinking about him. He places his hand on the knob, intending to interrupt before Deadpool decides he no longer cares what Spider-Man thinks of him and offs Jameson in a fit of annoyance.

“Listen,” Wade continues, taking the murderous tone down a notch or two. Maybe even attempting to sound reasonable. Peter pauses again, silently scolding himself for eavesdropping even as he continues to do just that. “Spider-Man, he’s- he won’t like this. This makes him look bad, see?”

“If you think I give a fig what Spider-Man thinks, you’re dead wrong. He’s a menace! Do you even read our paper, son? We’re always printing stories like this. They sell _and_ they get the truth out there.”

“But _I_ am _not okay_ with contributing to Spider-Man slander! He can’t be seen with me. Not- not like this. It’s not good, it’s-“

Peter, feeling some combination of touched, confused, and worried, finally decides to cut in. He swings the door open, surprising both Jameson and Wade. “If it’s written, it’s libel.”

“I know,” Jameson snaps, at the same time Wade asks, “What?”

“If it’s written, it’s libel. Not slander,” Peter explains. Wade is wearing a hoodie over his suit again. This one has the word _meh_ printed across the front in bold letters. His pouches and weapons are nowhere to be seen.

“Peter! What are you doing here?” Wade opens his arms like he might go in for a hug. He doesn’t, though, just gestures widely. “Waaaaait a minute. Peter _Parker_. I knew I knew that name from somewhere- you take Spider-Man’s picture all the time!”

Peter fidgets. “Um, yeah-“

“Did you take _this_?” Wade picks a paper up off of Jameson’s desk and thrusts it angrily under Peter’s nose. There’s a picture of Spider-Man and Deadpool on the front page, probably taken after their run in with the mercenary woman. It’s grainy, clearly not professional. Snapped with a cell phone camera or something of the like. In it, the two of them are leaning on each other, walking arm in arm. Or so it seems. In reality, Peter knows, he was hanging on to Wade to keep from falling on his ass.

The headline reads, **SPIDER-MAN GETTING CHUMMY WITH FELLOW MASKED FREAK**. The article details an eyewitness account of the two of them making their way down the street that night and recounts a few of Wade’s less charming public outings, including the time he slaughtered several people on a highway overpass. Peter would like to believe it’s an over-exaggerated retelling.

“No, wasn’t me,” he tells Wade matter-of-factly. “First of all, look at the quality, and secondly, I don’t have to resort to sleazy pap shots.” This last is meant mostly for Jameson, who gives him the stink eye. “Wade, I wouldn’t take your picture without your permission. Not ever.”

“You know this bozo, Parker?” Jameson asks. “Why am I not surprised? And why am I not calling the cops right now?”

Peter ignores him. Wade is being too quiet. “You believe me, right?”

Wade clears his throat. “I- yeah. Thanks, Petey. But that doesn’t solve my current conundrum. Spider-Man’s panties are gonna be in a wad when he sees this. You know, if he wore any. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. The suit’s too tight, right? He’d have a panty line visible from space.” He pauses, as if Peter is going to either confirm or deny that Spider-Man goes commando. Peter doesn’t, so Wade plows on. “I’ve been trying to get on his good side and this is gonna set me back several fucking light years. I know he doesn’t wanna be seen with me-“

“What makes you think that?” Peter wonders. The two of them had, after all, just gone out to breakfast together for all the city to see and Peter can’t recall ever insinuating he wouldn’t want to be associated with Deadpool even if it is, technically, true. Or it used to be. Now Peter finds he’s… mostly okay with it. Or, not okay. It’s bad, in some ways. The Avengers aren’t going to like it. The X-Men aren’t going to like it. It’s going to give some people a sour taste in their mouth about Spider-Man. But he’s not angry about it the way he would’ve been a few weeks ago.

“It’s just common sense,” Wade says, as though Peter is being dense. “He’s a hero. I’m a killer. He’s got a reputation that needs to stay untarnished. People look up to him, like little kids and stuff. It’s alright if he’s seen with me every now and then, out in the city, but making the front page? With a headline like _that_? That’s a big deal.”

Strange how Wade is only saying exactly what Peter’s been thinking, but now that it’s been said all Peter wants to do is contradict it. He opens his mouth to do just that but Wade interrupts him with a curse. “And _now_ ,” he says dramatically, moving his limbs in a way that somehow suggests an eye roll. For someone whose face is always covered, he’s incredibly expressive. “You probably don’t want anything do with me, either, since now you know I’m a killer. Shit.”

Peter blinks. He tries to do a mental run through of his other two out-of-costume encounters with Wade. It’s so hard to remember what Peter knows and what Spider-Man knows and keep them separate. But, Wade is right. He’d never mentioned his occupation to Peter. He only has about a half a second to decide whether or not to play dumb. He settles on not.

“I know what you are,” Peter carefully informs him. “I recognized the suit, the first time we met.” That’s plausible, right? Peter is supposedly friends with Spider-Man, after all. It wouldn’t be ridiculous for him to have heard of Deadpool.

Wade tilts his head to the side, considering. “And you still…?”

Jameson makes a disgusted noise. “Would you two take this somewhere else? If this idiot isn’t gonna kill me, I’ve gotta get back to work.”

Peter is almost glad for the interruption.

“Listen, mustache,” Wade growls, pivoting on his heel to point menacingly at Jameson. “Maybe this can’t be undone but if you _ever_ even _mention_ me in your paper again, especially alongside Spider-Man, I’ll come back here with a sword and gut you like a fish in front of your entire fucking staff.” He pauses, then lightly knocks the snow globe on Jameson’s desk onto the floor. It rolls and disappears beneath a filing cabinet. That done, he turns to leave.

“I wish you would, you pansy,” Jameson snaps at Wade’s retreating back. Wade flips him off.

Peter scurries after Wade, eager to give Jameson time to calm down. It seems like every eye in the office tracks them as Peter walks with Wade to the elevators, some with fear and some with curiosity. If Wade is bothered then he doesn’t show it.

“I can take it from here, Petey,” Wade tells him, jabbing the down button with more force than is strictly necessary. 

“It’s fine. I’ll- I’ll ride down with you. No one will miss me for a few minutes.”

“Can’t get enough, huh?” Wade teases. “Even after I threatened to murderize your boss. Someone’s got it bad for the ol’ Wadester.”

Peter rolls his eyes. Wade tuts.

“Don’t deny it. I can see it in your big, beautiful doe eyes. But who can blame you? I mean, have you _seen_ this physique?” Wade flexes. Pointlessly. His hoodie is too baggy. Peter knows all about his ‘physique’, though. Like Spider-Man, Deadpool’s costume leaves little to the imagination.

Peter had almost forgotten Wade could see his face. He prays the poor lighting in the elevator obscures the way his cheeks have gone pink. “Yeah,” he says, attempting to play it off. He presses the lobby button before Wade has a chance to attack it. “Too bad your ‘heart belongs to someone else’. How’s that going, by the way?” Peter would be lying if he said he wasn’t just a little interested in the answer.

Wade shrugs. “He’s too good for me. Hard to believe, I know, but it’s true. And, actually, I’m not even sure he’s into dick? I forget not everyone is… like me.”

Peter blinks. “And what are you like? If you don’t mind me asking, I mean.”

“Hell if I know what kinda fancy label I’m supposed to put on it. Dick, boobs, both, neither- what’s it matter? They’re all just _parts_. This time those parts happen to belong to a dude, but it’s the dude I like, not the parts. You follow?”

“Makes sense. You could always ask him, you know?” Peter tries to remember if Wade has ever mentioned any other guys in his life. Or anyone else, period. He hasn’t, either to Spider-Man or to Peter, but that doesn’t mean other people don’t exist in his world. Peter is well aware that Deadpool must have his secrets, same as Spider-Man. A family, maybe? Friends? Colleagues?

“Oh, yeah, sure. Just drop that into casual conversation. ‘Uh, hey, bro, just wondering- do you get hard for guys, too, or is your penis only into vagina’?”

Peter laughs. “Well, I wouldn’t phrase it like that.”

Wade waves a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Like I said, he’s too good for me. Just like you.”

“ _Me_?”

“Yes, you adorable little nerd, you.” Wade reaches over to ruffle Peter’s hair. Peter scowls and attempts to coax it back into place. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. “That’s my cue!” Wade chirps. “I’ll be seeing you, Petey!” He blows a kiss over his shoulder just as the doors start to slide shut again. Peter mimes catching it, mostly in the hopes that it will make Wade smile.

Of course, when Peter arrives back in the office, everyone is watching him with questions in their eyes. Maureen is the only one to approach him. She’s one of his few friends so he obliges when she grills him about Deadpool, and about what went down in Jameson’s office. He carefully omits any of the more personal details of their acquaintance. The less people know, the better.

-

Peter is just getting home when the phone rings. _The_ phone. The Deadpool one. It startles him so much he almost drops his camera.

The ringtone is _Call Me Maybe_ and, Peter discovers when he flips the phone open, Deadpool has set his own name as _Sexy Mofo_. There’s a tiny picture of him throwing up the peace sign. It’s ridiculous… but it makes Peter smile.

“What’s up?” is his greeting of choice, after some deliberation. _Hello_ would’ve been too formal and _yeah_ too dismissive.

“Spidey, hey! I was hoping you’d pick up. Have you… had a chance to look at the paper today?” There’s a lot of background noise. It sounds like Wade must be out somewhere. Funny, to imagine him strolling casually down the sidewalk whilst on the phone with Spider-Man and undoubtedly decked out in all his gear.

“Yeah, um. My friend, Peter- Peter Parker- he said you stopped by the Bugle today. And that you seemed pretty upset.” Even after all this time, it’s still strange to refer to himself in the third person.

“Oh.” Wade hesitates. “You guys talk, huh?”

“Sometimes.”

“Right… Did he say anything _else_ , because-“

“He said you threatened to gut his boss like a fish.”

“That was… a joke. Mostly. Kind of. Listen- I called because I want you to know I had nothing to do with that story getting published but I _totally_ understand if you want me to skip town, now. It doesn’t look good, I get it, I’m-“

“Wade, stop,” Peter interrupts, aware that Wade would probably keep babbling until he cuts in. “You don’t have to leave. I get crap like that printed about me all the time. No one who matters will pay any attention to it.” He has no idea if he’s bullshitting or not. He just knows he doesn’t want Wade to leave. Silly, that. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? He’s pulled Peter’s ass out of the fire twice now. Having him around is clearly not a _bad_ thing.

“… You sure?” Wade ventures. The background noise has quieted down some, like maybe Wade ducked into a building or off onto a side street.

“I’m sure,” Peter promises.

Wade blows out a breath. “That’s a relief. I’m- oh. My date is here. Gotta go, Spides! Talk to you later. Thanks again!”

The line abruptly goes dead. Peter lowers the phone, stares at it where it rests in his palm.

“Date?” he asks, dumbfounded. The phone chooses not to shed any light on the subject and Peter is ashamed to admit he spends the rest of his night wondering who on earth Wade might be on a date with.

-

Wade calls again at 5:48 in the morning. Peter knows that’s what time it is because when he blinks his eyes open he happens to be facing a clock. It takes him several groggy seconds to realize those are the muffled strains of _Call Me Maybe_ he’s hearing.

He digs the phone out from under his pillow, where he doesn’t remember placing it, and answers with a sleep-deprived, incoherent grumble.

“Oh, did I wake you up? What time is it?”

Peter runs a hand through his hair. It’s sticking up in all directions, he can feel it. “Too early,” he complains. “Please tell me you aren’t just calling to gossip.”

“Nope. I’m calling in that favor you owe me. And also,” Wade giggles. “You sound adorable when you wake up.”

The first part of that gets Peter’s attention. He sits up. “Are you in trouble? What’s going on?”

“No, no, everything’s fine. I got this gig I need help with.”

Peter frowns at his closet door. “As in, a mercenary gig? I told you, I won’t-“

“It’s not like that, Spidey. Come on, give me some credit. It’s a _good guy_ gig. I mean, yeah, this rich old fuck is paying me a shit ton of money to do it, but it’s definitely not gonna give anyone any bad karma. Someone stole something from him, he wants us to steal it back. Or, me, actually, but it’ll be a hell of a lot easier if you help.”

Peter feels woefully unprepared to listen to any of this at the moment but he soldiers on. “Details,” he demands, giving up on sleep entirely. He pushes the covers off himself and trudges into his kitchen to make coffee. He notices, absently, that his pajama pants are too long. They’re dragging the floor.

“Okay, so. Some bad guys took this ancient, expensive artifact from our guy, who’s a collector or something. I dunno. I tend to zone out for the exposition. Anyway, they’re holding it at this mansion up in Colorado. It’s some real Mission Impossible shit. They’ve got it in this vault thing, right, and guarded by these gun-toting bastards, _and_ the room it’s in has a pressure-sensitive floor. Which is where you come in, my wall crawling comrade. I can get you in, no problem. Then all you have to do is snag the stupid thing and we can be on our merry way, no casualties or anything. Probably.”

Peter sighs. “I dunno, Wade-“

“I’ll split the money with you. Fifty-fifty. That’s twenty-five thousand dollars for a days work, Spides. Or two days, I guess. We’ve gotta head up there early for some recon. But your part- just a day. And not even a whole day! Probably just, like, an hour!”

That gives Peter pause. “It… wouldn’t be a favor if you paid me…”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s not like I need the money. So, you in?”

Peter bites his lip. On the one hand, he does owe Wade. Twice over, in fact. On the other hand, shady work. But back on the first hand, twenty-five thousand dollars… And it’s not like anyone has to _know_ Spider-Man is getting paid to help out some poor old man who got robbed. That’s all people will see, right? Spider-Man helping out?

“Fine. When do we leave?”


	7. Chapter 7

“I feel ridiculous,” Peter announces.

Wade doesn’t look up from where he’s tinkering with something at the kitchen table. “Why’d you come in through the window? You always come in through the window. I have a perfectly good door, you know.”

Peter drops his duffel bag in the recliner and goes to peek over Wade’s shoulder. “It’s the civvies,” he says, ignoring Wade’s question. “It feels weird to be wearing them _and_ my mask.”

Wade finally glances over. He scoffs. “You look fine. And I do mean _fine_. So shut up and hand me that screwdriver over there.” He gestures vaguely behind himself.

It takes Peter a moment to locate said screwdriver. For some reason it’s sitting in the spoon rest by the stove. “What are you doing?” he asks, passing it over. The thing in Wade’s hands is a strip of black leather, like a belt, with some kind of gizmo attached. The face of the gizmo is removed, revealing it’s innards, which Wade seems to be tampering with.

“Shh,” Wade shushes him. “Just- stand over there and look pretty for a minute while I concentrate. But not _too_ pretty, that would be distracting.” There’s a click. “Oh- wait! I got it! Yes!” He slides the faceplate back into place and stands, hoisting the belt victoriously.

“…Yay?” Peter ventures. “What is it?”

“This, my arachnifriend, is a teleportation belt. An old buddy made it for me but I hardly ever use it since it’s about as reliable as… something that’s not reliable.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’ve got a way with words?”

Wade waves him off. “It was on the fritz but I’m pretty sure I’ve got it working well enough to get us to Colorado and back.”

“We’re teleporting there? Wait- what if it _doesn’t_ work?”

Wade shrugs, which is the opposite of reassuring. “Grab your bag. This should take us straight to the hotel.”

Peter does as instructed. Wade holds the belt in one hand, his own bag slung over his shoulder, and curls his fingers around Peter’s wrist with the other. “You might wanna hold your breath and close your eyes,” he says. “My first time wasn’t very fun.”

“That’s what she said,” Peter mumbles, but he does as asked. He almost wants to leave his eyes open, just out of curiosity. He’s sure it would look quite strange. It _feels_ quite strange, at any rate. One second Wade is beside him, breathing and holding his wrist and Peter can hear cars passing by outside and Wade’s neighbors stomping around upstairs. The next, all that disappears. All the noise just stops, all at once, and Peter can’t feel Wade beside him anymore. He only feels like some invisible weight is pressing in on him from all sides, making it difficult to breathe. Then, a split second later, the weight disappears and sound returns. Different sounds, though. Wade, still beside him, but also people talking and papers shuffling and wheeled suitcases rolling across tile floors.

Peter opens his eyes. They’re arrived in the lobby of a hotel. There’s a lady in a pants suit standing three feet to their right who looks very surprised to see them.

Wade cheers, letting go of Peter’s wrist. “We made it! And all in one piece, too! You are in one piece, right?”

“Uh.” Peter looks down at himself. “Yeah, seems that way.”

The surprised lady looks around, like she’s wondering if she’s the only one who saw two masked men materialize out of thin air. Wade pushes her aside on his way to the front desk, where he leans casually and dings the service bell three times, despite there being an attendant standing right in front of him. The attendant’s smile bravely persists. She doesn’t even look curious about their attire.

“Reservation for Wilson,” Wade says. The attendant passes him two key cards, one of which Wade then passes to Peter.

“This is a really nice hotel…” Peter notes as they make their way toward the elevator. There’d been a marble fountain in the lobby. Everyone, patrons and staff alike, are in suits.

“Deadpool travels in style,” Wade says. Then, “Thanks for coming with, by the way. I figured you’d turn me down since I didn’t give you a lot of notice. You seem like the type who’d have plans already, big hero that you are.”

“Well, I did. I’m missing school, for one thing.” The elevator moves quietly, smoothly. One wall is glass, allowing Peter to look down on the lobby as they rise.

“You go to school?”

Peter’s brain catches up with his mouth and he realizes he hadn’t meant to admit to that. “Uh… yes?”

“You sure? You don’t sound sure.”

Peter scratches at the back of his neck. “I, uh. Just don’t normally tell people stuff like that. That’s all.”

Wade snorts. “What, like I could find you just because I know you’re a student? Only you and about a million other twenty year olds. Geez, Spidey, you’re a little paranoid.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen if someone found out who you are, anyway?”

“… They could go after my family and friends?”

“Oh.” Wade considers this. “Guess I didn’t think of that. Don’t really… have any family or friends to speak of… Well, there’s Nate, but he can take care of himself.”

“Nate? Is he the one you were on a date with?”

Wade stares at him. “What?”

“The other night, you said-“

“ _Oh_. Oh, no. It wasn’t really a date, Spidey. It was a meeting. About this job.” 

“Ah,” Peter says, feeling foolish even though he’d had no way of knowing that. The elevator arrives at their floor and they file out into the hall. Wade leads the way to their room, Peter trailing along at his side.

Wade snickers, pokes Peter in the shoulder. “You were _jealous_.”

Peter pokes him right back. “Was not,” he argues.

“Were too! I could hear it in your voice. You were _totally_ jealous that I was on a date with someone else.”

Peter thinks back. Had he sounded jealous? He hadn’t meant to. _Was_ he jealous? He’s… kind of relieved that Wade wasn’t on a date but that doesn’t count, right? It doesn’t mean anything.

Thankfully he’s saved having to reply by their arrival at their room. It’s a perfectly nondescript door. Peter is expecting a basic room- two beds and a bathroom, maybe a desk or a chair in the corner if the hotel is really trying to dress things up. What he gets instead is a suite. There’s a bedroom, a living room, a mini-kitchen, and a bathroom with a jacuzzi tub. Everything is ornate and lavishly decorated. The TV takes up almost an entire wall and by itself probably costs more than Peter’s monthly rent. The place is nicer than his and Wade’s apartments combined.

Peter pauses in the doorway to take it all in. Wade shoulders past him, unfazed. “Dibs on the bed by the window!”

“… Wade,” Peter says. Then, “Why?”

Wade pokes his head back out of the bedroom. “Why the window bed? Because look at this fucking view! That shit’s top dollar.”

Peter shakes his head. “No, I meant… We’re just staying for a night, right?”

“Oh, yeah. I just told them to give me whatever was available. Seriously, come look at the view.” He takes Peter’s hand and pulls him toward the bedroom windows, which are covered with heavy velvet curtains. Wade pulls one aside so Peter can look out.

They’re in the mountains. High up, from the looks of it. Outside is a winter wonderland, a beautiful blue sky, and a row of snow-capped mountain peaks. Trees dot the landscape, appearing here and there where the snow allows. It’s beautiful, like something Peter might’ve seen on a postcard once.

“Wow,” he breathes. “I’ve never been in the mountains before. Or too many places out of the city, really.”

“You gotta live a little,” Wade tells him, clapping him on the back. “And now I’ve gotta go to work. There’s recon to do and the sooner I do it, the sooner it’ll be done.”

“What, already? We just got here.”

“I know you’ll be bored to tears without me but, hey, they’ve probably got pay-per-view porn and I’ve got an unlimited budget. Go nuts, baby boy.” Wade is already unpacking things from his duffel. Weapons, mostly. As Peter watches, he sheds his hoodie and baggy jeans, stripping down to just his suit. He clicks a gun into it’s holster and straps his sheathes to his back.

“I am _not_ jerking off in this hotel room. Too weird. When will you be back?”

Wade shoots him a thumbs up. “Before you know it!”

“Got your phone on you?”

Wade holds it up in confirmation and pointedly slips it into one of his pouches. “Yes, dear.”

“Okay, good… Be careful,” Peter can’t help but add, aware that he sounds doting but unable to help it.

“Always am,” Wade chirps. He takes Peter by the arm and plants what would be a kiss on his cheek if not for their masks. He makes an over-exaggerated _mwah_ noise and then practically twirls away. “Don’t wait up!”

Of course Peter does wait up. After Wade leaves, Peter’s first order of business is to call MJ and cancel their plans to see a movie the following night, just in case he doesn’t make it back in time. His excuse is less _a mercenary whisked me off to the mountains_ and more _I’ve got all this coursework due and I’m poor_. MJ, being the wonderful friend that she is, offers to pay for his ticket but he’s never let her before and he’s not about to start now. Before hanging up, she also accuses him of having what she calls a ‘secret lover’ and, when he refutes the claim, suggests that he should get one.

By the time Wade does finally get back it’s past midnight and Peter has had time to bathe and watch three and a half movies. He comes in and brings the smell of pine with him. Peter is happy to note that there’s not a scratch on Wade anywhere.

“Well?” Peter says.

“We’re good to go tomorrow,” Wade says, collapsing backwards onto his bed. Then he says ow, complains that his swords are jabbing him in the back, and removes them. “What are we watching?”

Peter tells him, and Wade proceeds to provide color commentary on the movie _Gone Girl_ for the next hour. It’s very much not a comedy but Peter finds himself laughing harder than he has in a long time. Wade has a talent for that, it would seem.

It takes Peter a while to fall asleep. He hates sleeping in his mask but he doesn’t breathe a word of complaint. It’s something he assumes Wade does a lot, if not all the time. Wade doesn’t seem to have any trouble getting to sleep, at any rate. Peter looks over and can’t make much out in the dark but the way Wade’s gone lax, and his chest rises steady and even, suggests that he’s out like a light.

Peter is finally, _finally_ dozing off when something jolts him back to the world of the alert. It’s Wade, shifting in his bed, mumbling something incoherent under his breath. Peter listens, trying to make it out, trying to figure out if Wade is awake or not. It doesn’t seem like it, and his restlessness quickly turns to thrashing and his voice begins to sound pained.

Peter shoves his own blankets off and climbs over to Wade’s bed. He perches on the side, not sure what to do. But Wade is clearly in distress. In the midst of a nightmare, Peter assumes. 

“Wade,” Peter tries, and then again louder. Wade doesn’t respond so Peter reaches out, intending to take him by the arm, but his touch is intercepted. Wade uses one of his hands to grab Peter’s, his grip crushing. The other wraps around Peter’s throat, too fast for Peter to move. Peter’s spider-sense is urging him to get away, to put distance between himself and the danger, but he forces himself to be still, instead.

“Wade,” Peter says, calmly, placing his hand over Wade’s on his throat. Not prying, just touching. He takes it as a good sign that he can still talk, though Wade’s grip is bruising. “It’s me. It’s just me.” He can’t see Wade’s face, can’t tell if he’s still talking to a sleeping man or if Wade has become aware. But, gradually, Wade’s grip on his hand loosens, and then his grip on Peter’s throat. 

“Oh, my god,” he says, sitting up, letting go all at once. “I’m- I was having a dream, I think. I’m so sorry, Spidey. Did I hurt you? Please tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

“I’m not a delicate flower,” Peter assures him. “Are you okay?”

Wade is shaking. It’s only barely perceptible but Peter can feel it. “Yeah. Just. Bad dreams. Bad memories. I’m sorry.” He brings his legs up to his chest, wraps his arms around them. It strange to see someone Peter always thinks of as strong and unshakeable be reduced to comforting himself, making himself as small as possible.

“Does that… happen a lot?” Peter wonders, keeping his voice low. He doesn’t know why, maybe to comfort him or maybe to distract him, but Peter reaches out and takes Wade’s hand in his. Their hands are bare, their gloves abandoned sometime earlier. It’s dark, too dark for Peter to see anything, but he can feel the uneven texture of Wade’s skin, can feel calluses that are just starting to form and it occurs to Peter that this is the hand Wade recently had to regrow. Does it hurt, he wonders? Reforming all those calluses? Wielding blades and guns and getting blisters until they do?

“Not that much,” Wade says. He curls and uncurls his fingers as Peter traces patterns over his palm. “Just sometimes. Fucking figures it would happen tonight.”

“What were you dreaming about?”

Wade hesitates. Gradually his trembling subsides. Peter thinks he might not ever answer, might deem the information too personal, but then he says, “Vanessa. My ex. They killed her.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, even though he knows it means nothing. The words don’t help, but what else is there to say? “I… lost someone like that, too. She died because of me.”

“We’ll start a club,” Wade says, squeezing Peter’s hand. “The Dead Girlfriend’s club.”

“How about just the Tragic Ex’s Club? Cause there was this guy, my best friend. He sort of went completely nuts. He’s locked up now.”

“Huh,” Wade says, tilting his head. “There’s… a lot to process in that sentence. First of all- guy? I was under the impression you were straight, Spidey.”

Peter smiles. It had been his intention to take Wade’s mind off his nightmare. “Well, we were never… official. We just fooled around, off and on. Before… Before my girlfriend. But, no, not straight.”

“Don’t mind me,” Wade mumbles. “Just filing this information away.”

Peter chuckles. “You gonna be alright?” he asks, letting go of Wade’s hand.

Wade actually seems to think about it for a second. “Yeah. Probably.” He catches Peter’s wrist as Peter begins to stand. “I’m… sorry,” he says. “Again. And thank you, Spidey. Really. I promise I will try to avoid choking you in the future, unless you ask nicely.”

That startles a laugh out of Peter. “Go to sleep,” he says, aware that he’s blushing. “Big day tomorrow.”

“Yes, mum,” Wade chuckles, letting go of him.

Peter’s bed is cold when he settles back into it.

-

Peter is having an unpleasant but admittedly silly dream about showing up to class in his underwear when something wakes him. At first he isn’t sure what’s done it but then he hears a noise from the other room. A thump, and then footsteps. He rises, groggy and sleep-rumpled, and trudges toward the noise to see what his temporary room mate might be up to.

“Wade?” he calls, rounding the corner.

“Oh, shit, don’t- _don’t_ -“ Wade rambles, voice trembling. That, more than anything, is what brings Peter up short. Wade hadn’t even sounded like that after his nightmare. Peter doesn’t register what he’s looking at for another several seconds and when he does it takes his breath away.

Wade must’ve just showered, because the bathroom door stands open, releasing steam into the room, and Wade has a towel draped over his head. He’s turned away from Peter but he’s bare from the waist up, revealing the broad expanse of his back and shoulders, covered in scars. Some angry, some faded, some raised and some not. Some look like the result of burns while others look inflicted by sharp objects, long and curved. They look awful and painful and Peter has the sudden and unexpected urge to hurt whoever inflicted them.

“Go back to bed,” Wade snaps. “You’re supposed to be _asleep_.” He’s so stiff, holding himself like he’s anticipating a blow.

Peter stumbles toward him. He reaches out and this time- _this time_ he touches. He rests his fingers on Wade’s shoulder, bare skin against bare skin, and traces a pattern of scars, marvels at how _soft_ Wade’s skin is, despite the bumps and ridges. Wade flinches, at first, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I- I can’t find it,” Wade says, crumpling. “My mask. I can’t find it, Spidey, I’m- I took it off, to take a shower, and now I can’t _fucking find it_ -“

Peter draws back, shocked. In his sleepy daze he hadn’t even realized Wade was maskless. As curious as Peter is, as much as he wants to know Wade’s face, he’d never dream of taking that choice away from him. He averts his gaze, though Wade is making sure on his own that Peter isn’t able to see anything. “You didn’t bring a spare?”

“Didn’t think I’d need one,” Wade says, brusque.

“I’ll- I’ll help you look,” Peter offers. “It’s gotta be here somewhere, right? It’s- oh.” Peter spots red, peeking out from beneath the sofa. Wade’s mask must have fallen there somehow. “Here it is.” Peter bends to retrieve it and hands it over with his eyes steadily fixed on the floor. Wade snatches it back. He slams the bathroom door shut behind him.

Peter blinks at the closed door. He’d like to ignore it but he knows he feels… stung. He knows he has no right to expect Wade to open up to him, or go maskless around him, but he still feels somehow hurt that he won’t. Especially since Wade had more or less admitted to him recently that it’s personal. _Not around you_ , he’d said, as though Peter were somehow undeserving or untrustworthy. Even still, after all this time they’ve spent together. Even after last night, when it had seemed like they were making progress.

He expects Wade to have calmed down by the time he reappears. He expects him to try and pretend that nothing happened, or to brush the whole incident off with humor.

He doesn’t. Instead, Wade remains cold and quiet. Aloof. He shrugs off Peter’s attempts at conversation as he arms himself to the hilt, preparing for their mission.

“Non-lethal, right?” Peter asks, watching him. It is, after all, supposed to be an easy mission. No casualties. That’s what Wade had said.

Wade doesn’t answer.

“Well,” Peter mumbles, mostly to himself, sounding weary. “This should be fun.”


	8. Chapter 8

“It’s cold,” Peter complains, sinking lower in his coat.

“No shit,” Wade murmurs, but he doesn’t seem very cold. He’s laid out in the snow in just his suit, no coat or any winter gear in sight. He’s been lying like that, almost perfectly still, for the better part of an hour, peering through the scope on a sniper rifle. In front of them, in a small valley between two cliffs, sits the mansion they’re trying to infiltrate. Peter doesn’t know what Wade is watching for. He’d asked and gotten no reply.

In fact, most of his questions and attempts at conversation have been brushed off and turned aside. Ever since this morning, when Peter caught Wade in a partial state of undress, he’s been taciturn. Peter was tempted to point out that _usually_ that sort of thing leads to sexy times, not to endless rounds of the quiet game, but he’s pretty sure that with the mood Wade is in the remark would earn him a glare, not a laugh.

The fact of the matter is, Peter isn’t quite sure how to treat this new, aloof version of Wade. He’s been replaying the last several hours in his head, wondering what he did wrong, but he can’t pinpoint anything. He thought about trying to reassure Wade that this morning didn’t change anything but he isn’t sure how to go about it. Every time he tries to run through what to say in his head, he gets stuck. And he’s not even sure what, exactly, Wade is upset about. It’s all made for a tense and too-quiet morning.

“Almost time,” Wade says. Peter jumps at the sound of his voice. “Grab onto me. As soon as the distraction blows, we’re teleporting in.”

“Blows?” Peter wonders, but he sheds his coat and dutifully grabs on to Wade’s belt when he stands. Wade straps the sniper rifle to his back.

As has become the new norm, Wade ignores him. Peter’s question is answered soon enough, anyway. Within the next minute, an explosion goes off near one end of the house, blowing out a wall and sending smoke and debris into the air.

Wade doesn’t give him any warning before he teleports them. They land in an empty and cavernous concrete room, one wall dominated by a large metal door. Peter struggles to orient himself, feeling dizzy and sick for several seconds. It passes, but slowly. Peter is just proud he manages not to lose his breakfast.

“How are we getting _that_ open?” Peter asks, gesturing at the frankly imposing vault door.

Wade is digging around in his satchel. “Key,” he says, but what he pulls out looks less like a key and more like a severed hand. He approaches the door and does something with the hand that causes several locks to click back one at a time. The door swings open a fraction of an inch.

“How long has that been _in_ there?” Peter sputters. “How- why- _who_ \- ugh.”

Wade shrugs, tosses the hand carelessly aside. It flops against a wall and falls to the floor. “We don’t have much time. Those guards won’t stay gone long.”

“Right,” Peter mutters. He approaches the vault door, pushes it open just enough to be able to see inside. The room is massive and _filled_ with little glass cases, each proudly displaying what Peter assumes is a priceless artifact. It’s a very odd assortment of things. There are gems and coins and books, which makes sense, but there are also eyeballs floating in blue liquid and a pile of nothing but dust and pieces of broken tech and clothing from bygone eras.

“Eclectic fellow, isn’t he?”

Wade gestures. “Turn on your ear piece. I’m going to go keep a look out.”

Peter has to reach up under his mask to fiddle with the small radio Wade supplied him with. He knows it’s on when it briefly supplies feedback which settles into a low electronic hum. “Wait- what am I supposed to be grabbing, here? There’s like a million things in that room.”

“It’s a crystal. Big, blue, floating. You can’t miss it. And remember- don’t touch the floor.”

“ _Floating_?” Peter asks, but Wade already has his back to him, walking away.

Peter sighs. He turns back to the room, fires web at the ceiling to pull himself up there. From there he has an even better view of all the miscellaneous items. It still takes him a while to find the crystal he’s looking for, since it’s situated near the rear of the room, but, true to Wade’s word, he knows it when he sees it. It’s a small blue crystal, hovering about an inch off of a velvet pillow. It, like everything else, is covered by a glass case.

It’s not all that difficult to remove the case. He just attaches web to it and lifts, being careful not to drop it, then webs it to a wall. Retrieving the crystal is no problem either. He wraps it in web so he doesn’t have to touch it, wary of whatever enchantment is probably placed on it. It’s as he’s in the process of this that his radio crackles to life and Wade says, “Shit, they’re coming back.”

“What? What do we do?” Peter looks around. There’s only one way in or out.

“Hurry,” Wade snaps.

Peter does just that, crawling quickly along the ceiling. He isn’t even halfway out when Wade utters another curse. “I had another distraction planned. Stupid fucking faulty bomb. Didn’t go off.” Here, he cuts out. Then Peter hears more cursing.

“What’s going on?” Peter asks, listening hard. “Wade? Are they here?” There’s no answer.

The sounds of fighting reach Peter as he draws close to the exit. Not through his earpiece but through the vault door, which is still cracked open. He lets himself drop to the floor, braced for whatever might come at him on the other side.

Turns out he needn’t have worried for himself. No one takes notice of him. Every man in the room is focused on Wade, who is dispatching them with cold, brutal efficiency. At first Peter is glad to see his guns are still holstered, thinks that maybe Wade is only dealing non-lethal blows, but- no. Wade isn’t pulling any punches. He isn’t sparing anyone. Peter watches as he beheads a man, then opens another from groin to throat. The cement floor is quickly becoming awash with red. Wade is just a blur of motion.

“Wade!” Peter calls, snapping out of his shocked daze. “Stop- what are you _doing_ -“

Wade pays him no mind. He’s already felled nearly every guard in the room. By the time Peter is able to jolt himself into action, Wade is cutting the legs from beneath one of only two men left breathing. The last, a man with five o’clock shadow and wide, watery eyes, drops his gun and holds up his hands, surrendering.

Wade advances on the man, blade leaving a trail of dripping blood behind him. He raises his sword and there is no doubt in Peter’s mind that he’s about to slaughter an unarmed, surrendering man. The man seems to know it, too. He squeezes his eyes shut, braces himself against the wall behind him.

“ _Stop_!” Peter yells again. He webs Wade’s sword, yanking it from his hand. Wade turns and Peter imagines that if he could see Wade’s expression it would frighten him. “That man is _unarmed_ ,” Peter tells him, persevering. “Don’t make me subdue you.”

Something about Wade’s stance reminds Peter of a coiled snake, ready to strike. He’s powerful. Peter forgets that, sometimes. His physique isn’t for show. He’s lithe and fast and well-trained and _strong_. Peter has never had to think of Wade in terms of ‘how would I defeat him’ before. He finds himself doing that now, formulating strategies and calculating his odds and he hates himself for it and he hates Wade for making him do it.

All at once, Wade’s demeanor changes. His fingers uncurl from claws and he straightens. He sheathes his remaining sword in one smooth motion and growls, “Let’s fucking go.”

The last thing Peter wants to do is touch Wade. He’s covered in blood- largely the blood of his foes, not his own. But he forces himself to do it, approaches slowly and grabs onto Wade’s wrist so Wade can teleport them away from the heinous scene around them. Peter can’t even look at most of the bodies without wanting to throw up.

Their hotel room materializes around them. Peter doesn’t feel as sick this time. Not because of the teleportation, anyway.

He immediately puts distance between himself and Wade, staggering to the other side of the bedroom. But he doesn’t turn his back. He’s afraid to. That’s new and terrible and Wade seems to realize it the same instant Peter does.

“Don’t do that,” Wade snaps.

“What?” Peter snaps right back. His heart is racing. He’s still in fight or flight mode.

“Don’t act like I’m some- _deranged lunatic_ who’s gonna cut you as soon as look at you.”

“I don’t know _what_ you are. I thought I did but that… That was-“

“Business as per fucking usual is what that was. I saved the mission. I did what I had to do.”

“You slaughtered them! And you were going to kill an unarmed man! Wade, I’ve seen you fight before without killing a soul. I know you can do it, you chose not to. You _promised_ me no causalities. So what was that?”

Wade folds his arms over his chest. “Stress relief,” he says.

Peter makes a noise, part disbelief and part disgust.

“I did it because I _wanted_ to. Because that’s who I am.” Wade starts to close the distance between them, until he’s looming over Peter. Peter has to tilt his chin up. “I’m a _killer_ , Spider-Man. Does that put you off? Does that disgust you? This is who you’ve been palling around with. A professional killer. And guess what? I enjoy my job. I _love_ it. I can’t wait to send poor fucking saps to the afterlife. Straight into Death’s arms. How does that make you feel, hero? You think I’m a psychopath? You wanna lock me up? I’d like to see you try.”

Peter shakes his head. “What’s wrong with you? What’s- this isn’t you, I know it’s not.”

Wade scoffs. “What do you really know about me, Spidey? Next to fucking nothing. Don’t pretend you’re an _authority_ on all things Deadpool.”

Peter swallows. He forces himself to take a deep, calming breath. He places his palms flat against Wade’s chest, can feel Wade’s heart rabbiting much the same as Peter’s has been. The touch must surprise Wade because he goes still. “What are you trying to do?” Peter asks, lowering his voice. “Trying to scare me off? Trying to see how far you can push me? Why?”

For a moment Wade says nothing. He places his hands over Peter’s. He’s still covered in blood and smells like copper. “I’m just helping you toward a realization,” he says, and for once in this conversation sounds familiar to Peter.

“What realization is that?”

“That I’m no good. That you’re better off as far away from me as you can get. I thought- For a while, I thought it might be good. That you might rub off on me. But I’m no hero, Spidey. I never will be. I’ll never be…”

“What?” Peter prompts. 

“Good enough,” Wade finishes. His tips his chin down, tries to put distance between them again but Peter doesn’t let him. He clings. “I’ve done things…” Wade continues. “I can’t outrun the past. I can’t get rid of these fucking scars. And I know that no matter how good I am, no matter what I do… You’ll never want me.”

Peter’s breath catches in his throat. There haven’t been many times in his life when he’s found himself utterly speechless but this is one of those times.

“Why would you?” Wade babbles. “I’m a mess, inside and out. What they did to me in Weapon X, it fucked me up, Spidey. There’s no coming back from it. I’ll always be a big screwed up piece of work, hurting the people I care about, fucking up the world around me. It was stupid of me to try and get close to you. No good could ever from it.”

“I- I can’t just- What you did today was…” Peter trails off. He doesn’t know what he wants to say. He doesn’t know what he _needs_ to say. What Wade did today was wrong, there’s no question about it. Peter didn’t much like the side of Wade that he saw in action in that mansion. But there’s a very large part of him that refuses to believe Wade is a monster. He _knows_ Wade isn’t a monster. And Peter has grown too fond of him to let him walk away.

Since words are failing him, Peter does the only thing he can think to do. He hugs Wade, arms wrapped tight around his waist. He decides he doesn’t care about the blood. He just wants Wade to know that he’s not a lost cause.

Wade really is shocked, now. At first he seems scared to touch Peter. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he returns the embrace, arms enveloping Peter in warmth.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” Peter says. “So for the sake of several poorly trained guards, please stop trying.”

Wade laughs like it’s startled out of him. “You really should leave,” he says, but he doesn’t let go.

There’s apologizing that needs to happen and forgiveness that needs to be worked towards but Peter decides they can figure all that out later. Everyone deserves a second chance. Everyone can change. Even people like Wade, self-proclaimed perpetual fuck up. Peter believes that whole-heartedly, and he’s will to work to make it happen.


	9. Chapter 9

Peter shifts the curtains aside to take one last look at the scenery. The sun is setting behind the mountains, casting them in shadow. He’s not entirely sad to be returning to the city, to what’s familiar, but he will miss the view. He sort of regrets not getting to make a snow man. He’s sure, with Wade as company, the activity would’ve been quite the experience.

Behind him, Wade is packing the last of his things back into his duffel. He’s not saying much. Peter can tell that everything that’s happened over the course of the last two days has somehow shifted their relationship. It is now irreversibly changed, though Peter has no idea if it’s for the better or not. Peter can’t even say _how_ it’s changed, exactly. He just feels it, like a fraying line between them.

Peter pulls the crystal from his pocket, still wrapped in web. He turns it back and forth in his hands. “So, what does it do?” he asks, breaking the borderline uneasy silence between them.

“Hell if I know,” Wade admits, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder. “I don’t ask too many questions. That’s a quick way to stop getting job offers.”

“It’s a _floating blue crystal_ that someone just paid you fifty-thousand dollars to retrieve and you’re not even a little curious what it does? Or how it works?” Peter is at least interested in the science behind it, if nothing else. It seems a waste to send it back without studying it first, though he knows that’s not an option.

“Aw, Spidey,” Wade says, reaching over to pat him on the head. “So sweet, so naïve. In my experience, it’s better not to know.”

Peter passes the crystal over when Wade holds out his hand. It disappears into one of Wade’s pockets. “It could come back to bite you,” Peter points out, because that’s how these things work in _his_ experience.

“Look,” Wade says. “I know what’s really bothering you. If this thing turns out to be evil and it kills a bunch of people or wrecks some shit or whatever, you don’t have to worry about being responsible. Alright? I took the job, I roped you in. It’s on me. I’ll even let you say ‘I told you so’. But if every random object I was paid to fetch wound up being evil and coming back to ruin my life, I’d have given up the business a long time ago.”

Peter holds up his hands, conceding the point. But he feels compelled to add, “If it _does_ wind up being evil, I’m definitely gonna say ‘I told you so’… But I’ll also be there to help you clean up the mess.”

Wade pauses. “Unless,” he says. “It’s past your bed time.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Shut up. Are you ready to go yet?”

Wade nods. He fiddles with the teleportation belt. “Anywhere in particular you wanna get dropped off?”

Peter considers. Obviously he can’t say his apartment, but he could at least have Wade get him close. He rattles off a place just a few blocks down. Wade fiddles with the belt some more, then directs Peter to take his arm.

Peter is pretty familiar with teleporting now. More than he ever thought he would be, at any rate. He’s only a little dizzy when he comes out the other side and it takes him less time to orient himself. The coffee shop is, thankfully, mostly empty at this time of day. The barista looks surprised for half a second to see them appear, then shrugs and goes back to wiping down counters. Peter imagines she probably sees weirder on a weekly basis, knowing this city.

“Oh, hey, I’ve been here before,” Wade notes, looking around with interest.

Peter freezes. Internally, he berates himself. It’s not that he’d _forgotten_ his maskless meeting with Deadpool here, it’s just that he’d, well. _Momentarily_ forgotten. 

“I sat… right over there,” Wade says, pointing at the corner table. “And then I met this super cute nerd. We totally hit it off, Spidey. I’m pretty sure I caught him checking out my ass, which, by the way, is pretty great. I’ve seen him since, too. I think he likes me.”

Peter’s panic is derailed. “Wait,” he says, coming to a realization. “Are you trying to make me _jealous_ right now?”

“That depends. Is it working?” Wade sounds half-joking, half-hopeful.

Peter decides his life is officially ridiculous. Wade is trying to make him jealous by bragging about flirting with him. This is a situation that it never occurred to him he might be in when he decided to keep his identity secret. “No,” he says. “I am definitely not jealous that you and some nerd flirted with each other.” Wait- flirted with _each other_? But Peter hadn’t been flirting. Had he?

“Weirdly specific,” Wade points out. “What if I held his hand? Took him on a date? Kissed him? Would _that_ make you jealous?”

Peter’s cheeks are burning. He mentally adds this to the list of times he’s glad he keeps his face covered. “Still no,” he insists, which is true. But he can’t stop imagining it. Wade kissing him. _Him_ , not Spider-Man. Wade’s hands, large and warm, cupping his face and leaning in, or maybe holding him by the waist, or maybe twining their fingers together. Wade’s face must be scarred, too. What would that feel like? To be kissed by him?

“What if I took my mask off for him?” Wade asks, voice dipping low. “Bet you’d be jealous then.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might.” Wade shrugs. “If he asked nicely. I mean, he’s _really_ cute, Spidey. I’d probably do just about anything if he bat his eyelashes at me and said please.”

Peter’s mouth has gone dry. “So that’s your weakness,” he says, trying to regain some footing. “Cute boys.”

Wade chuckles. He nudges Peter with his elbow. “Thought you would’ve figured that out by now.”

“Well, I haven’t gotten you to take your mask off, have I?”

“You haven’t tried batting your eyelashes at me, either,” Wade points out. He doesn’t give Peter time to retort before he switches the subject, abruptly announcing, “I’ll let you know when I get our money, then I can give you your half and we can be done with the whole thing.”

Peter starts shaking his head before Wade is even done talking. “I can’t take the money.”

“What? Why? I thought that was the whole reason you took the gig.”

“I agreed to help because I owed you a favor. The money was just a bonus.”

“So… why can’t you take it? Favor’s repaid, I’m happy to share the loot.”

Peter shifts awkwardly on his feet. He doesn’t want to start another argument or put more distance between them. “It’s… nothing. I just… don’t really need it. So you can keep it.” It nearly pains him to say it. That money could do wonders for the mountain of debt he’s burying himself under in college.

“You’ve got a lousy poker face,” Wade tells him. Peter refrains from pointing out how that makes no sense, what with the mask. Besides, he’s right. Peter has never been the best liar, secret identity aside. “What’s the real reason?”

“It’s just… I felt okay about it when we were just helping someone, but…”

Peter can practically see the metaphorical lightbulb go off over Wade’s head. “Oh,” he says, flat. Monotone. “It’s because I killed those people.”

Hesitantly, Peter nods.

“So, what, it’s blood money now? Tainted? You _know_ that wasn’t your fault, you had nothing to do with those guys dying-“

“They didn’t _die_ , Wade. You had it right the first time. They were killed, and- No, I don’t want to argue about this. I just wouldn’t feel right about it, okay? About taking the money. Can you just accept that?”

The barista is definitely eyeballing them now. Peter lowers his voice, though it’s probably too late to pretend they weren’t talking about murdering people. She’ll undoubtedly be texting all her friends in a minute about how Spider-Man probably killed a dude. Great. “Like I said, I went because I owed you. Not for the money. So don’t worry about it, alright? I’ll be fine. We’re fine.”

For a second it seems like Wade might push the issue. Then he gives in with a little huff. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a stubborn little shit when you want to be?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. I like it.” Wade steps back. He offers up a salute, half-hearted and largely sarcastic. “I’ll see you around, Spidey.”

Peter salutes him back and in the next instant he’s gone, leaving Peter with the sinking feeling he won’t be seeing Wade for a while.

-

He’s right. Wade disappears. Whether he’s still in the city or not, Peter isn’t sure. He keeps an eye out for him on patrols, can’t seem to help it, but he never does spot him.

He thinks about texting him. Because a text is harmless, right? Wade could ignore it if he wanted, if he’s trying to get some space or take a break from… whatever they are. If he’s trying to take a break from Peter. But Peter never can bring himself to do it. Too afraid that Wade really would ignore the message. Too afraid to find out how much that would sting.

Thing stay quiet around the city so Peter has little to no Spider-Man business to distract him. Instead, he throws himself into his studies. He spends time with MJ and has lunch with Aunt May and makes Jameson happy with some new pictures. And with every day that passes, he wonders more and more where Wade might be, what he might be doing, whether or not he might be in trouble.

It turns out he needn’t have worried. He finally spots Wade during one of his patrols, almost three weeks after their last meeting. At first he thinks his eyes are playing tricks but- no. That’s Wade walking down the sidewalk, hands stuffed in his pockets, iconic mask peeking out from beneath a hood he has pulled low.

Peter follows him. He swings from rooftop to rooftop, careful to keep out of sight. Wade never looks up. If he realizes he has someone tailing him, he doesn’t give it away.

Peter doesn’t have to follow for long. Two blocks down, Wade enters an otherwise empty diner. From Peter’s vantage point across the road, he sees Wade take a seat, sees a waitress with a bored expression come and hand him a menu, sees Wade scan it and then put it back down. He pulls out a knife and begins picking at his nails. The waitress, when she comes back to take his order, eyes him uneasily.

Peter thinks about leaving. About just walking away, letting Wade continue his recluse act. But even if Wade wants to be left alone, it isn’t in Peter to grant that wish. So instead he drops down to the ground and pulls the diner door open. The waitress lays eyes on him and breaks into a grin.

“Are you really Spider-Man?” she asks, excited, and Peter thinks that even if he weren’t he’d say yes just to avoid disappointing her.

She seems a little confused when he takes the seat across from Wade, who has yet to look up from his own hands. They’re bare, no gloves, and once again Peter finds himself fascinated by the mercenary’s scars. They’re beautiful in their own strange and terrible way. They tell a story and they’re a part of who Wade is. Perhaps that’s why Peter rather likes them.

“Hi,” Peter says, when it becomes clear that Wade won’t be the first to speak.

“Hi,” Wade parrots, pocketing the knife. He folds his hands on the table and stares expectantly.

It’s hard to tell what kind of mood Wade might be in today. “Do you, um… Mind if I join you?” Peter stumbles over the sentence, feeling awkward and unsure. Two things he’s never really experienced around Wade before.

Wade shrugs.

Peter huffs. “Alright, what’s wrong? Why are you giving me the silent treatment?” He’d hoped that after so much time they would be past this. But it was probably a silly hope. Things don’t just mend themselves if you leave them alone. They’d parted on okay terms, though, hadn’t they? Hadn’t they already been on the road to fixing this the last time they’d seen each other? It had seemed that way, what with Wade’s continued flirting.

“Me? Silent treatment? Buddy, I wouldn’t even know how.”

The waitress seems hesitant to approach but she does, notepad in hand, to take Spider-Man’s order. Peter just asks for a coffee. He’s not hungry, but it would be rude not to order anything.

“Then why’d you fall off the map?” Peter asks as soon as she’s out of earshot, picking their conversation back up.

“I’ve been around. Took a couple of jobs but otherwise I’ve been right here in the city. Didn’t realize you wanted to keep tabs on me. Is that a condition, too? I can’t stay here unless I tell you every little thing I do?”

“That’s… not what I meant. I just- normally I see you and-“ Peter stops. This isn’t at all how he meant for this conversation to go. He tries again, decides to be blatant in the hopes that Wade will appreciate his honesty. “I missed you, that’s all.” It shocks him, realizing as he says it just how much he means it. He has missed Wade, in all his manic, mouthy glory. He makes Peter laugh and he’s silly and capable and, at times, insightful and Peter is almost always having fun when he’s around.

Wade fidgets with the hem of his sleeve, which is so long it falls over his knuckles. “But not too much, right? You’ve got my number- why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you go looking? Why do I have to do all the work?”

“… What?”

“It’s a two-way street. Or it should be. I don’t wanna always be the one hounding you, you know? And I kept thinking- oh, he’ll call. He’ll shoot me a message or stop by the apartment. But you never did. So then I started thinking I would call, or find you, but no. I wanted to see how long you’d go before you noticed. I wanted to see if you’d vanish once you didn’t _owe me_ anymore.”

Peter opens his mouth, closes it again. He hadn’t thought about it in those terms at all. He’d assumed that if Wade wasn’t contacting him then he didn’t want to be contacted.

“Just tell me,” Wade says, leaning forward, elbows propped on the table. “Did I _completely_ fuck things up in Colorado? I mean, I know I fucked things up- what else is new- but, like, on a scale of one to ten-“

“I wasn’t avoiding you because of Colorado. I wasn’t avoiding you at all. I thought- I thought you wanted space, or something. Or that you were done with me or…”

“ _Done_ with you?” There’s a pause, and then Wade laughs. “Oh, my god. Spider-Man is insecure? Holy shit, that’s adorable.”

Peter didn’t know he was waiting to hear Wade’s laugh but as soon as he does some of the tension drains from him, like something in him just needed to hear that sound to be put at ease.

“As if I could ever be _done_ with you. Fucking hell, Spidey. Have you seen yourself? Do you know who you are?” He drums his fingers on the tabletop. “So we were both just being insecure assholes? That’s my gig. You heroes are supposed to have all the swagger, all the confidence. I didn’t even _think_ you might be over there moping, thinking I dumped you, because why the hell would you? Look at me. Or, you know. Don’t. Point being, you’re stupid and I forgive you.”

Peter blinks. “…Thanks?” he ventures. “Uh. So we’re good now?”

“We’re getting there.” Wade pauses again. His fingers keep tapping. “You really missed me?”

Peter ducks his chin. No point being shy about it now. “Yes.”

Wade giggles. Actually _giggles_. Peter wouldn’t say he’s used to Wade’s mood swings but he’s not totally unfamiliar, either, and in this case he’s glad for it. It helps that he feels partly responsible for cheering him up. It’s a good feeling.

Wade reaches out, pokes Peter on the nose, and says, “Boop.”

Peter catches his hand before he can retract it. He holds it there, lines their fingers up. Peter’s are long and thin, like an artist’s, and dwarfed by Wade’s, who has the hands of a fighter. His scars only further that impression.

“Do they hurt?” Peter asks.

“All the time,” Wade replies.

Peter lets go when their waitress approaches their table with Peter’s coffee and Wade’s meal. Peter thanks her, Wade ignores her. As soon as she walks away, Wade hooks his feet around Peter’s ankles under the table. Peter lets him.

Peter pushes his mask up to sip at his coffee. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter notes the waitress staring. Maybe trying to figure out if he knows him.

Wade fiddles with his silverware.

“I can go,” Peter offers.

“No,” Wade says, no hesitation. “Stay. I’ll eat later.”

Peter wants to tell him he’s being ridiculous. Wants to tell him he that he won’t be scared off no matter what Wade looks like under that mask. But it all sounds so serious, so presumptuous, in his head. He leaves it all unsaid. Instead, he just says, “Okay,” and he stays.

 

“We’re gonna have to talk about it eventually, aren’t we? The whole… difference of opinion thing.”

“Eventually,” Peter agrees. “But not tonight.”

-

Peter texts Wade the next day while he’s at work. He doesn’t intend to make the same mistake twice.

Wade texts back in record time. Peter figures he just needed a little encouragement, because after that it’s as though the flood gates have opened. Wade texts him throughout the day and into the night. Random things, random pictures, all in the interest of making Peter laugh. And if people catch Peter smiling dopily at his phone- well. He lets them.


	10. Chapter 10

Aunt May is staring at him.

Peter flips his phone shut. “What?”

Her smile is small and knowing. “Who’s that you’re texting, dear?” she asks faux-innocently.

“No one,” is Peter’s reflexive answer, which he realizes after the fact is more suspicious than just saying ‘a friend’ or even just saying ‘Wade’.

Aunt May takes a bite of her mashed potatoes. She hums, looking far too conniving for her own good. “No one? So you won’t mind if I set you up with Nora’s daughter? She’s a sweet little thing, already agreed to the date. All I had to do was show her your picture.” She takes another bite. “Or, if not her, there’s this new girl who just moved in a few houses down, I hear she’s single- Or, oh, this nice boy at the supermarket! His name was Evan, I think. He was very handsome-“

“Noooo,” Peter groans, drawing out the word. “Absolutely not. No one is setting me up with anyone. Ever. I don’t need to be set up, Aunt May. I’m perfectly happy with- with-“

Aunt May’s eyebrows are somewhere around her hairline. “With who?” she presses.

Peter had been going to say _with the single life_. Instead he says, “With… Wade…” It comes out sounding weak and unsure, the lie already tasting bitter on his tongue. He wishes he could take it back as soon as it leaves his lips. Dishonesty has never been something he’s very comfortable with.

If Aunt May notices anything amiss then she doesn’t point it out. Instead, she claps, which Peter feels is rather uncalled for. “Oh, I knew it! You haven’t stopped smiling at that phone since you walked in. Tell me all about him, Peter!”

Peter bites his lip. It’s too late now, he decides, and tries to recall everything about Wade that his aunt might approve of. “He’s… Very outgoing. And funny. Kind of… out there, sometimes, but it keeps things interesting. He can be… surprisingly sweet, though. And he’s insecure, a little bit, about his looks, but-“

“But looks aren’t everything,” Aunt May finishes for him, grinning from ear to ear. “He sounds lovely. Do you have a picture? When can I meet him?”

Peter groans again. “It’s still new, Aunt May! I can’t just spring you on him. And no, no pictures. We haven’t reached the ‘selfie together’ stage yet. Give it time, okay?”

She reaches out to pat his hand, still looking inordinately pleased. “Have you told MJ? You have to tell MJ.”

Peter sighs. Wade, he thinks, must never, ever find out about this.

-

**_where r u? it’s chimichanga time_ **

_What is it with you and Mexican food?_

_I’m on my way home. Were we supposed to meet up today? No one told me._

Peter pockets the phone. He shoves his camera and portfolio into his bag, then shoulders the burden. He’s the only one left in the office so there isn’t anyone to wish him a goodnight. He’d stayed late today to finish up some editing and procrastinate an essay. Now it’s dark out and he’s so hungry his stomach is _actually_ growling, which is how he knows it’s reached critical levels. Just the thought of chimichangas is kind of making his mouth water- and he doesn’t even like Mexican food that much.

His phone buzzes again as he’s stepping out onto the sidewalk.

**_u were just supposed to KNOW. like a fuckin mind reader_ **

_I’m Spider-Man, not Professor X. Where should I be and when?_

**_my place. headed there now. race ya!_ **

_Not fair! I don’t have my web shooters._

Peter is only barely paying attention to his surroundings as he texts. It’s only thanks to his spider-sense that he avoids a head on collision with another pedestrian, and they still manage to knock shoulders.

“Oh, sorry,” Peter apologizes on reflex. “Are you-“ He stops. “Oh,” he says. “Hi.”

Wade is decked out in all his gear today, weapons included. But it doesn’t look like he’s been in a fight. There’s no blood or telltale rips in his suit. He looks up from his phone. His Spider-Man phone, to which Peter is currently holding the twin. “Peter Parker? Damn. I’m starting to think it really _is_ fate. What are the odds, right?”

Peter laughs, nervous and strained. He tries to surreptitiously slide the phone back into his pocket. He can tell he fails on the _surreptitious_ part by the way Wade tilts his head, very obviously tracking the movement. Wade’s thumb is hovering over his keypad. No doubt he was in the midst of replying to Peter’s last message. “Right!” Peter chirps, probably just this side of too cheery. Internally, he curses his luck. Of all the times to run into Wade out of costume…

There’s a pause. “I can’t believe you’re wearing a fucking sweater vest,” Wade says, which is enough of a tangent that Peter relaxes. “It’s kind of amazing.”

Peter laughs again, tugs self-consciously at the hem of said sweater vest. “Um, thanks. I like your… thigh holster.”

Wade snickers. “I bet you do,” he says. “Hang on, just gotta finish this text to Spider-Man. Who I’m super tight with, by the way. Just saying. Feel free to be impressed.”

Peter rolls his eyes. A moment later, Wade hits send and Peter’s phone chimes, obnoxiously loud in the otherwise relatively quiet night. Peter doesn’t move, just internally berates himself for not putting it on silent like a _freaking moron_. 

Wade looks at him, then at his pocket. “Huh,” he says. “You gonna check that?”

“Nope!” Peter says, suddenly feeling very hot under the collar. There’s no way he could explain away the phone. Especially not with the obnoxious (and yet somehow endearing) Deadpool sticker on the back. It would be too much of a coincidence. “It’s- probably nothing. Don’t worry about. So, where were you headed-“

“Hang on,” Wade interrupts. He presses a few more buttons on his phone. Peter’s pocket chimes once again. “I really think you should look at that,” Wade urges, sounding amused. “Sounds like it might be important. Could be your girlfriend.”

“Don’t have one of those.”

“Boyfriend?”

Peter shakes his head.

“Hm,” Wade says. “Interesting.”

Peter opens his mouth, not at all sure what’s going to come out. In the end, nothing does. They’re interrupted by a man in a black beanie with a beard that’s in desperate need of a trim. At first it seems like he’ll pass by them but then he stops, just out of Wade’s arms reach. “You,” he says. His voice is gruff. The kind of voice one only acquires after years of smoking cigarettes. “You Wade Wilson?”

The change in Wade is subtle but Peter picks up on it. His posture shifts as he goes on high alert. He keeps the phone clutched in one hand, moves the other to the holster at his side. He stops just short of drawing his gun. With one more small shift, he’s placed himself mostly in front of Peter. Preparing to protect him. “Yeah. You a fan?”

“Something like that,” says the man, smirking.

Peter sees Wade look around, figures he’s probably checking to make sure no one else is nearby to get caught in any crossfire. The sidewalk is otherwise empty, excepting the three of them, which is normal for this time of night. Peter knows, he’s walked this route enough times. Normally he appreciates that the Bugle is out of the way. Now the relative seclusion and darkened street lends an ominous air.

“Well,” Wade says, tone still light. “I’m in the middle of something, so if you could kindly fuck off-“

The man draws and fires in the span of an eye blink. Wade’s head snaps back, neck at an unnatural angle. Red spatters the sidewalk behind him. Then he falls, crumbles to the ground in a heap of boneless, lifeless limbs.

Peter stumbles backwards to avoid going down with him. He stares, uncomprehending. Wade isn’t getting up. He isn’t _moving_. The back of his head is a mess of blood- darker in color than his suit- and brain matter. Logically Peter knows that people don’t just _survive_ getting shot in the head, not like that, but he still finds himself holding his breath. Hoping. He knows Wade has a healing factor. But can it bring him back from something like this? It can regrow limbs but can it knit his brain back together?

He barely registers the man fleeing. Not until he’s already half a block gone. Peter runs after him anyway, loathe to leave Wade’s side but unwilling to let the man escape. He doesn’t have his web shooters but he’s far from helpless and he’s already closed most of the distance between them when a sleek black car screeches to a halt beside the curb. The windows are tinted so dark they show nothing but the reflection of city lights. The door swings open and the man clambers in, just seconds before Peter can grab him. Instead, Peter’s fingers close on empty air, and the car screeches away again.

When Peter turns around, he can still see Wade. From this distance he’s just a smear of red on the pavement. Still unmoving. Still silent.

He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to do, so he goes back. His mind is a mess of random observations and half-formed plans and panicked questions. Things like, _what do I do with the body?_ And, _there’s blood on my shoe_. And even, _I never saw his face_.

He kneels next to the body. Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? A body. It’s a weird realization to come to.

With shaking hands, he pulls out his phone. _The_ phone.

The last two messages Wade sent him were:

**_that’s what makes it fair_ **

**_;)_ **

Peter laughs, because it’s either that or cry. He puts the phone back in his pocket, thinks idly that there’s no use for it now. He touches the back of Wade’s hand where it rests on the concrete.

Wade’s finger twitches.

Peter jumps, scurries backwards. Wade’s finger twitches again, and then his hand moves, and then he’s lifting it to his forehead and groaning. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, slowly rearranging his limbs and sitting up. “That always fucking hurts and it _never fucking kills me_ so why do they keep trying?”

There’s still blood dripping from his head down the back of his suit. Peter watches it with wide eyes.

Wade finally seems to realize he’s got company. “Oh,” he says. “Sorry about that. Were you- uh. You look a little pale. You alright, Petey? Get a little sick at the sight of blood?”

“Me?” Peter says, finding his voice. “ _Me_? Am _I_ alright? Wade- I just watched a man kill you.”

“Yeah, and?”

Peter sputters incoherently, waving his hands.

“You said you’d heard of me, right? Figured you’d know all about the ol’ healing factor. Kinda what makes me super, after all.” Wade wipes at his wound with the back of one hand, smearing blood in an attempt to clear it away. “Ugh, gross,” he says to himself. “Another suit for the dumpster.” He takes the dirty glove off and flings it away.

“I didn’t know you could _come back from the dead_!”

“Oh, sure.” Wade stands, brushes himself off. Some poor sap, Peter thinks, is going to walk by this bloodstain and be very confused later. “I can’t be killed. And trust me, people have tried.”

Peter stands, too, just so Wade isn’t looking down at him. “I thought- I was in full on freak out mode, okay? Don’t just act like this is nothing. I thought you were _dead_. I ran after the guy! I was gonna punch him in the face for you!” He shoves Wade- lightly, but maybe Wade is still dizzy because he sways with it. He grabs onto Peter for balance, fingers curled around Peter’s arms, and then doesn’t let go.

“Aw, you were gonna punch a guy for me? That’s sweet. But dangerous. You should leave that to the professionals, kiddo. I’d hate to deprive the world of your pretty face.”

“Professionals like you? Professionals who get shot in the head by some jerk in a beanie? Who was that guy, anyway?”

“Probably a member of the drug cartel I pissed off last time I was out of town. He did look like a jerk, didn’t he? Should’ve seen it coming a mile away.”

“That is _not the point_.”

“I don’t know what you want to me say, dear. I’m sorry you had to witness that? I’m sorry I got blood on your shoe? I’m sorry we keep running into each other?”

“No- don’t be sorry for that.” Being around Wade out of costume is weirdly freeing. Peter thinks it should probably be the other way around. “I’m not sorry about that.”

“…Good,” Wade says after a beat. He clears his throat, steps away. Then perks up again. “Oh, shit. I was supposed to meet Spider-Man. How much time did I lose?”

Peter checks his watch, feeling a little miffed by Wade’s sudden awkwardness. “Fifteen minutes.”

He groans. “Great. Gotta go, Petey! Be careful on the way home!” He blows a kiss even as he starts jogging away.

Peter thinks it’s lucky he isn’t just some normal pedestrian. Otherwise he’d probably need therapy.

-

“So what happened?”

Peter is calm now. Or calmer than he was twenty minutes ago. He can’t seem to stop replaying the incident in his head- alive now or not, he witnessed Wade _dying_ and he was devastated and he knows eventually those are feelings he’s going to have to deal with- but otherwise he’s fine. He’d swung by one of his secret stashes to grab his suit and managed to arrive at Wade’s place just moments after the mercenary himself.

Wade looks over from where’s prodding gingerly at his skull in a mirror. He still hasn’t changed clothes. “Oh, nothing. Just a shooting. But don’t worry- I’ll handle it. I’m thinking the guy responsible will make a nice kebab, skewered just so.” He draws his katanas, as if to demonstrate, but then just tosses them aside. They land gently in the armchair.

“You’ll kill him?”

“Sure. An eye for an eye and all that.”

Peter shakes his head. He wants to argue. The words are on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he closes the distance between them and folds Wade into an embrace. Peter isn’t very physically affectionate by nature but- this is what he needs. Right now, he craves the affection like he so rarely does. Because he thought he lost Wade, maybe. Or maybe it’s just been too long.

Wade always, _always_ seems surprised when Peter touches him in a non-hostile way. This is no exception. But he recovers quicker than ever before, pulling Peter to him with strong arms. “I’m okay,” he says, voice soft, like Peter is being silly.

“I know,” Peter says. Then, “You smell bad.”

“Well if _someone_ wasn’t being clingy then I could go shower.”

Neither of them moves.

“I think,” Peter says finally, hooking his chin over Wade’s shoulder. “That I was promised chimichangas.”

“That you were. But now I’m thinking we have Chinese delivered, park our asses on the couch, and watch movies until we pass out. All in favor say aye.”

Peter didn’t really come prepared for an impromptu sleepover and he has a test tomorrow and he’s not at all fond of sleeping in his suit. But- “Aye. Sounds great.”

Wade falls asleep before Peter does, head resting on Peter’s lap. Peter struggles to stay awake during his test but still regrets nothing.


	11. Chapter 11

Peter should be studying. Instead, he’s perched on a rooftop, waiting for Wade to arrive and marveling at how predictable he’s become. Not that he’s all that sad about it. Spending time with Wade will always trump sitting alone in a library, nose stuffed in a book for the sake of a grade. Besides, it’s a beautiful day. Even Aunt May wouldn’t fault him for taking a little time off. Probably.

“You’ll never guess where I’ve been,” Wade says, announcing his presence. He’s only a silhouette against the setting sun until he draws near.

Peter tilts his head. “… Albania?”

“What? No.” Wade plops down beside him with none of his usual grace. He thrusts a white paper bag in Peter’s general direction. “Here’s your fucking chocolate chip ice cream, you nerd.”

Peter takes the bag, peers inside. Wade wasn’t bluffing. There is indeed a small bowl of chocolate chip ice cream sitting inside, along with a bright pink spoon. Peter fishes them out, excited. “You can’t call me a nerd while you’re doing something nice for me. It’s just confusing.”

“It’s a term of endearment.” Wade waves a dismissive hand. Agitation is radiating off of him like heat. A sort of manic energy. He’s talking faster than normal. “Anyway. I’ve been at the Avenger’s HQ all day. And do you know why?”

“Why?” Peter asks around a mouthful of ice cream.

“Because of _you_.”

Peter licks his spoon clean and calmly waits for elaboration.

“Yes, _you_ ,” Wade says, as though he’d asked. “When I first got the call I thought- hey, guess they need some fucking dirty work done. Cause that’s what they do, you know. They call me in when some shit needs doing that they won’t deign to do themselves. Which is fine. It’s whatever. But today they just wanted to _talk_. About _you_.” Wade is gesturing a lot, talking with his hands. He seems too riled up to sit still.

“I didn’t know you worked with the Avengers sometimes,” Peter muses. “Actually I kinda thought they had you blacklisted or something.”

“Eh,” Wade says. “More like _for_. I work _for_ them sometimes. But that’s beside the point. The point is- they wanted to know my _intentions_. I’m pretty sure they think I’m going to murder you. Or… infect you with my crazy? Somehow? I don’t really know, they weren’t super clear on that front. You’re not one of them, right? You said you weren’t one of them.”

“I’m not,” Peter assures him. “We’ve helped each other out before, I guess, but I’ve never been officially added to the roster. What did they say, exactly?”

Wade hunches his shoulders, curling into himself. “They made some… insinuations. Called me a bad influence and basically told me to stay the fuck away from you because I’m- Well, whatever. I told them to go fuck themselves. I hear that shit from myself every day, I don’t need to hear it from them, too.”

Peter takes another bite of ice cream. “I’ll talk to them,” he decides.

Wade shakes his head. “Don’t do that. They’re just looking out for you. It’s not like they’re _wrong_ -“

“They _are_ wrong,” Peter snaps, though his ire isn’t directed at Wade and he hopes Wade knows it. “They’ve got no right to talk to you like that. You’re my friend and if I want to spend time with you, I will, the Avengers be damned.”

Wade stares. Peter pauses with his spoon in mid-air. “What?”

“That’s hot,” Wade declares. “You going all protective boyfriend on me. I like it.”

Boyfriend. Peter blushes. “I… I wasn’t-“

“But,” Wade interrupts. “There’s a better way to get our point across.” He rubs his hands together and performs his best villain laugh. Which is quite good, since the two of them hear them so often. It’s almost scarily accurate, even. “Let’s _roll their front yard_.”

Peter mentally translates that into English. “You want to… Cover Avengers Tower in toilet paper…?”

“Yes,” Wade practically hisses. “It’s _perfect_.”

Peter shrugs. “Okay, I’m in.”

Wade cheers, throws his fist into the air. “Yay! Now, we’re going to need a _lot_ of toilet paper…”

-

It’s MJ who brings it to Peter’s attention.

The two of them are grabbing a post-lunch coffee when she finally broaches the topic of Wade, Peter’s mysterious new boyfriend, which Peter knows she’s been dying to ask about all along. He’s rather impressed with her restraint, actually, and tells her so. But once the floodgates have opened she drowns him in questions. She’s not kidding when she says she wants to know _everything_. She asks about Wade’s favorite color and what he does for a living and how they met- all questions Peter either knows or can bullshit an answer for. Then she starts digging deeper. She wants to know where Wade grew up, are his parents still around, what are his hobbies, who are his friends, how old is he, etc. And as she’s asking, Peter realizes he has _no idea_.

He almost immediately determines to remedy that. Which is why, when Wade invites him over for movies- something that is quickly becoming a happy routine- he leaps at the opportunity to learn a little bit more about the mercenary.

“So,” Peter says, attempting casual and falling just short. They are now halfway into an old black and white detective movie. They’re camped out on the couch, sitting close enough that their thighs are pressed together even though it’s probably big enough for four people to sit comfortably side by side. “I was thinking and I realized, I know you, but I don’t know a lot _about_ you.”

“Okay,” Wade says slowly, instantly wary. He turns the TV down. Peter has his full attention. “What do you wanna know?”

“I guess I just… wondered about your past, mostly. Pre-Weapon X.”

Wade starts to tap his fingers on his own knee. “What about it?”

It wasn’t Peter’s intention to make him nervous but he presses on, choosing his words carefully, keeping his tone light and inquisitive. “Just, where are you from? What did you do, before? That kind of thing.”

Wade’s tapping speeds up. “Why are you asking? I mean, are you asking because you want me to tell you I was a saint before Weapon X? That I was some average joe vanilla good guy? Because Weapon X fucked me up, Spidey, but I was already pretty fucked up to begin with, so I hate to disappoint you, but-“

“No, no.” Peter places his hand atop Wade’s, stilling it. “I’m just curious, Wade. No ulterior motive. I promise.”

After a moment, Wade nods. “Alright. Well… Never got along with my parents, to say the least. Got out of there as soon as I could. Career wise, I’ve always been a killer. It’s what I’m good at. I was Special Forces, for a while, but I didn’t like some of the orders they were handing down so I went into business for myself. Became a mercenary. Started picking my own jobs.”

Peter nods, silently encouraging him to go on.

“Then… I met a girl. Fell in love with said girl. Got cancer. Left the girl. Volunteered for Weapon X. Continued muddling my way through life and now here I am, the scarred shell of a man you see before you.” Wade laughs, bitter and more than a little self-deprecating. It tugs at Peter’s heartstrings. “I was a real looker back then, Spidey, like holy shit. It was a face even you could’ve loved-“

Peter rests his fingers on Wade’s jaw line, just lightly. Wade stops talking. The two of them are sitting very close, now. Peter notices and doesn’t care to change it. “Do you know why I want to see your face so bad, Wade?”

Wade swallows. He shakes his head.

“Because I want to know you. Really and truly. And I feel like I can’t- not until I can look in your eyes.”

For a beat, Wade says nothing. He touches Peter’s throat, right where Peter knows the line of his mask ends. “That works both ways. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Peter’s heart is beating harder and faster than he’d like to admit. He’s never revealed his identity, never taken his mask off- not for anyone. But, “I don’t think you need me to take the mask off. I think you know exactly who I am.” His voice is shaking. He can’t help it. If he’s wrong- well. He hopes he isn’t wrong. He _really_ hopes he can trust Wade with this. If not, the consequences are too daunting to think about. “You’re smarter than a lot of people give you credit for, Wade. You can’t honestly tell me you haven’t guessed by now.”

“Do it anyway,” Wade urges, voice low. “For me. Please.”

Peter takes a deep breath. He pushes his mask up to his nose, pauses. There’s no going back after this. There’s no putting the secret back in the box. But Peter doesn’t think Wade will give him cause to wish he could.

He can’t look at Wade once the mask is removed. He holds it in his hands, stares at it in lieu of making eye contact, even though he knows he wouldn’t be able to see Wade’s expression anyway. The mask stares back at him, so utterly familiar.

For a long time, Wade says nothing. Then, “Peter,” he breathes, warm and _relieved_. His gloveless fingers graze Peter’s cheekbones, his nose, the edge of his bottom lip. Peter looks up, finally, and though Wade’s face is still covered he’d like to think he’s smiling. “I knew it was you. I _wanted_ it to be you.”

“You did?”

Wade nods. “ _Fate_ , Peter, what did I tell you? You’re… amazing. You’re perfect and I didn’t wanna have to _choose_ and can we just ignore all the stupid things I said before I knew it was you, please? Cause I’m pretty sure I said some _really stupid_ things-“

“It was… nice,” Peter argues. He’s blushing and Wade is _looking at him_. Wade is looking at him with the knowledge that Peter is also Spider-Man and it’s a strange, heady sort of feeling. It’s freeing, in a way, but also terrifying because now there’s nothing for Peter to hide behind. He feels laid bare. “When did you figure it out?”

“I started suspecting in the supermarket. Something about you was ringing some bells. But I thought I was crazy for thinking it. I mean, what are the odds, right? But I knew I was onto something the other night, with the phones, which by the way was so _stupid_ of you, it’s amazing you’ve managed to keep it a secret this long.”

“Hey! In my defense, I wasn’t exactly expecting you to show up when you did.” Peter ducks his chin, pouting. “Don’t think you’re getting out of your end of the bargain by distracting me with insults.”

“ _Loving_ insults,” Wade corrects. He sighs. “Are you sure about this?”

“Beyond sure.”

Wade reaches up, then stops.

Peter gently places his hands on Wade’s mask. “Let me?” he asks.

Wade lowers his own hands, nods once.

When Peter slips the mask off, Wade’s eyes are closed. He keeps them that way as Peter takes in the details of his face. His scars, which match those covering the rest of his body. His lips, one of which he holds between his teeth. The curve of his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose. All familiar and yet brand new. Peter could look at him for hours, for _years_ , and not be bored.

“Wade,” he says softly. “Look at me.”

Wade acquiesces. The first thing that strikes Peter is how _expressive_ his eyes are. They somehow manage to convey so many things at once. Fear and hope and resignation and hurt. They’re beautiful and oh-so-very _Wade_ and Peter was right- his imagination could never have done Wade justice. The two of them are looking each other in the eye for the first time and Peter has so much fondness for this man he can barely contain it all. He feels likes he’s going to explode if he doesn’t _do something_.

“Wade,” Peter says again. “I’m going to kiss you now. Okay?”

Whatever Wade was expecting, it evidently wasn’t that. His eyes go wide, he begins to form a surprised question, but Peter doesn’t give him time to voice it or himself time to doubt. He closes the distance between them, presses their lips together as gently as he knows how. Wade melts into it in an instant, hands coming up to frame Peter’s face, to hold him there. He smells of gunpowder and something else, something distinctly _Wade_ that Peter has grown to love.

“I tried,” Peter says when they separate. Neither of them goes very far. “To pretend that this was something else. But the other night- I had a terrible day and I was exhausted and angry and all I wanted to do was be with you. Near you. That’s all I wanted and I knew then that I was fooling myself-“

“Am I dreaming?” Wade wonders. “Is it April Fools?”

Peter laughs, just this side of breathless. “No, this is real. I mean it. Every word. Did you really think your scars would scare me off? They’re just… you, Wade. They’re part of you and I like them.” He traces one with his thumb, follows it over Wade’s brow bone. “They tell a story. _Your_ story.”

Wade kisses him like he can’t help it. It’s chaste and light and neither of them pushes for more. There’s still so much mystery between them, so many questions that need to be asked and talks that need to be had. “Whatever you do,” Wade says seriously. “Don’t pinch me.”

Peter laughs and kisses him again.

-

Peter’s life is never simple. He accepted that it never would be when he decided to become Spider-Man, which is why he’s only mildly surprised to find Black Widow waiting for him not far from Wade’s apartment. She’s leaning casually against a lamp post, red hair catching the light.

Peter stops well out of arms reach. “What are you doing here?” he asks, wary and irritated all at once. He still hasn’t forgiven the Avengers for talking down to someone he cares about and he highly doubts she’s here to apologize. He and Wade never did get around to rolling their yard, more’s the pity.

“Delivery,” she says, extending a thin white packet. He doesn’t like the look on her face. She looks on the brink of smirking. “We just thought it might be prudent to show you who you’re really making friends with.”

“Keep it. Whatever you’re got in there, whatever you think you’ve got on Wade, I don’t need to see it. I know exactly who I’m making friends with, _thanks_.” He goes to move past her but she stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Just take it,” she urges. “You don’t even have to open it. Just take it off my hands and I can say my job is done.”

After a pause, Peter does as she asks. She’s right. He doesn’t have to open it.

“For what it’s worth,” she adds, and she really is smirking now. “I think you’re going to want to see what’s in there.”

Peter shrugs her hand off. For some reason, he feels like he’s lost some kind of game he didn’t know he was playing with her.

When he gets home, he throws the packet onto his desk, intending to ignore it. He showers and eats and goes to bed.

But, just as Black Widow undoubtedly intended, he can’t stop wondering.


	12. Chapter 12

It’s not that Peter is opposed to Wade showing up at his place of employment, it’s just that he’s not _expecting_ it. Which is why, when the murmuring starts up, he doesn’t initially pay attention. But then the distressed, curious, and amused mumbling of his coworkers grows louder, draws nearer to him- and then Wade throws his arm around Peter’s shoulders and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Morning, sunshine,” Wade singsongs. “Or should I say afternoon? The day kinda got away from me, what with all the napping I did.”

“What are you doing here?” Peter blurts. Wade is wearing his mask, because of course he is. Peter had kind of hoped that after the initial reveal he might forgo it but now that seems like a silly hope. Wade wasn’t wearing the mask _just_ for Peter’s supposed benefit and he won’t stop now just because Peter didn’t run for the hills the first time he got a look at him.

“Bringing you donuts,” Wade tells him, brandishing a small white box. “These are absolutely the best donuts in the entire city and I can say that for fact because I’ve been to _every single_ donut shop since I’ve been in town. It took a while but I knew I couldn’t really think of New York as _home_ until I’d figured out the best place to get donuts, you know?”

“Um,” says Peter. He takes the box. “Thank you.” He looks around, unsubtly scanning the room and it’s other occupants. No one will quite meet his eye, but when he looks away he can feel them staring. “Maybe we should… talk outside?” he suggests, even as he leans further into Wade’s side.

“Why?” Wade asks. His grip on Peter tightens, almost to the point of being uncomfortable. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed to be seen with me, Petey.”

Peter places the donuts on his desk- he’ll definitely be back for those- and wiggles his way out of Wade’s hold. “Nope,” he says. “We are _definitely_ talking outside. Elevator, go.”

When Wade doesn’t immediately follow instructions, Peter takes his sleeve and starts pulling him in the right direction. At first, Wade digs his heels in, refusing to be moved. Then he lets up and reluctantly trudges along. He links their arms when Peter drops his sleeve. Now that he’s been given tacit permission to touch Peter, he doesn’t seem to want to stop. Not that Peter is complaining.

Despite saying they should talk outside, Peter starts up as soon as they’re in the empty elevator. “Why’d you really come here today? Huh? Cause I know you’re not just here to deliver donuts.”

“I just wanted to see you,” Wade says, pout audible. He winds his arms around Peter, pulling the two of them together. As close as they are, Peter has to tilt his chin up to look Wade in the eye. He’d have to go up on his tip-toes _just slightly_ to kiss him and-

That’s beside the point. Peter shakes his head at himself. “I’m- glad. But I still don’t think that’s the only reason.”

“I just wanted to see if things were different now.”

Wade is being very distracting. Peter isn’t sure it’s intentional. His thumbs are rubbing small circles into Peter’s skin and he’s talking very low and standing _so close_. “Of course things are different now,” Peter says, struggling to hold onto his train of thought. He really wishes Wade wasn’t wearing the mask. “How could they not be?”

“No, I mean- bad different. Like you changed your mind different. Like you came to your senses different. You get me?”

“Clearly,” Peter tells him, linking his hands together behind Wade’s head. “I haven’t.”

“You’re crazy,” Wade says, but he sounds pretty happy about it. “Or I’m still dreaming. Am I still dreaming?”

Peter kisses his cheek. “Nope, not dreaming,” he promises, just as the elevator slides to a stop. He doesn’t _want_ to disentangle himself from Wade but he does, instead twining their fingers together as they walk through the lobby toward the front doors. There’s not really anywhere to gain total privacy but at least outside they’re surrounded by strangers and the hustle and bustle of the city. People are far less likely to look twice at them.

Wade slouches against a wall, standing in the shade. He tilts his head. “You still don’t believe me?” he guesses.

“I do...”

“But?”

“But I still think you had another reason for coming here today. I mean, why here? Why now? I was supposed to see you tonight anyway.”

Wade folds his arms over his chest. “Well, what’s your theory?”

“I think you’re testing me. I think you thought I actually _would_ be ashamed to be seen with you.”

Wade scoffs, but doesn’t deny it. He gestures around. “Doesn’t exactly seem like you’re _proud_ to me, Peter.”

“I’m _not_ ashamed,” Peter argues. “I- I wouldn’t mind it if you wanted to go back upstairs right now and kiss me in front of everyone. I don’t care what they know or don’t know or gossip about.”

Wade points. “Yes, good idea. Let’s do that.”

“ _But_ ,” Peter stresses. “You’ve been seen with Spider-Man. And not just seen with him- your picture has been in the paper. Remember that? Remember ‘getting chummy’?”

“Boy, do I,” Wade says, suggestive eyebrow waggle implied.

Peter rolls his eyes. “I’m serious, Wade. People think you and Spider-Man are... I don’t know. Friends, at the very least. Involved, maybe. You start being seen with both of us and-“

“You worry too much,” Wade whines. He pushes off the wall, closes the distance between them. He fluffs up Peter’s hair with his fingers, frames his face with his hands. “ _Way_ too much. People think you know Spider-Man, right? So that’s how we met. Whatever. I can be friends with Spider-Man and… friends with you, too. Unless you really are ashamed and this is all some kind of elaborate excuse to make me feel better about it-“

“I think,” Peter says, lips twitching up into a smile. “That we’re both a little paranoid.”

“Aw.” Wade places a hand over his own heart. “Something else we have in common. We’re _adorable_.”

Peter chuckles. “Adorably screwed up. We’re gonna make all the other couples jealous.”

There’s a beat where they both realize what Peter has just said. ‘Couples’, as if they are one. There’s another beat where they silently agree not to acknowledge it in any way.

“You believe me, right?” Peter asks. “That I’m not ashamed of you?”

“I want to. That’s enough for now.” Wade surreptitiously glances around, then pushes his mask up to his nose. Peter meets him halfway for the kiss, using his hold on the front of Wade’s hoodie to draw him down. There are people passing by on the sidewalk just a few feet away. Peter doesn’t care. He’d probably let Wade kiss him on national television if it meant putting his fears to rest, his own concerns about his secret identity be damned.

Wade nuzzles at Peter’s throat, plants a kiss there as well, butterfly light. “I really like you,” he says, like it’s a secret. “Really really. But I have this bad habit of fucking things up.”

“I like you, too,” Peter says. He thinks of Black Widow’s packet, still lying unopened on his desk at home.

“You’re too good to be true,” Wade sighs. He sounds like he means it.

-

Later, Peter is juggling his things, attempting to fumble a key into a lock, and talking to MJ with the phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear. It’s a miracle he manages not to drop anything. “I _do_ like him,” he tells her. “It’s just- I don’t know if I can be with him. You know?”

Peter isn’t sure why he thought calling MJ would be a good idea. Since she doesn’t know about his double life he winds up having to be so vague and use so many euphemisms to talk around things that it’s hard to paint a clear picture for her. Still, he’d felt like he needed to talk to _someone_ and Aunt May was out of the question. MJ may be biased and protective of Peter but she’s not Aunt May level biased and protective.

“So…you can’t be with him,” MJ says, voice tinny over the phone line. “Because he… did bad things…? What kind of bad things? Is he a serial cheater or something?”

Peter tosses his keys onto the coffee table. He pointedly avoids looking at his desk. He still catches sight of that damn packet out of the corner of his eye. “No, no. Nothing like that, it’s just-“

“Is he a porn star?”

“What? No-“

“A prostitute?”

“Ugh, no, stop,” Peter groans. “He’s not a sex worker of any kind.”

“Drug user, then,” MJ guesses. “He was into the hard stuff and you’re worried about him relapsing.”

Peter considers. “Uh… Not exactly.” Less drugs, he thinks, more murder. And Wade can’t exactly relapse since he never stopped in the first place. MJ would definitely freak out of he told her _that_ , though. “Look, the point is- I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how much I can trust him. And I don’t know if I can ask him to change.”

“Oh, Peter,” she sighs. “I don’t know what to tell you. He’s not going to hurt you, right? I’ll kick him in the shin if I need to.”

That mental image startles a laugh out of Peter. “I don’t think he’d hurt me on purpose,” he assures her. “But I’ll let you know if I need him whipped into shape.”

MJ hesitates. “I’m really glad you found someone,” she says slowly, voice gone serious. “But please be careful. Promise me, Pete.”

Peter smiles. Sometimes he’s really glad he has MJ on his side. “I promise.”

-

Peter lets Wade take him to dinner and a movie.

They don’t call it a date. In fact, it seems like both of them are very carefully avoiding the word. But, in truth, that’s what it is. Peter knows it, at least. It was his idea. After Wade’s display at the Bugle it seemed like the thing to do. To be seen with him in public. It’s worth it for the way Wade seems to revel in it. He’s giddy all night, overflowing with happy energy. It’s contagious. Peter has more fun with Wade in one night, watching one bad movie and eating one cheap meal, than he’s had in years.

After all is said and done, Peter isn’t quite ready to go home and end their night. He’s hesitant to invite Wade over, still thinking of Black Widow’s ominous delivery and his own already founded misgivings about getting any closer to Wade than he already has. It’s not wise to hand Wade his address. He knows it isn’t.

He does it anyway.

“Walk me home?” he says. Peter doesn’t drink- it messes with his balance too much- but he feels drunk anyway. Buzzed, at least. He can’t stop smiling. It’s all Wade’s fault- he seems to have made a game out of how many times he can get Peter to laugh.

Wade, of course, agrees. As Peter is trying to unlock the door, Wade wraps his arms around him from behind and hooks his chin over Peter’s shoulder. He’s been tactile all night, as though touch-starved. Not that Peter minds in the slightest. “Gonna invite me in?” he asks.

Peter leans back into the hold. Wade is broad and solid and warm and a lot of other adjectives that Peter enjoys. He wants to invite him in. But. There’s always a but. 

Wade doesn’t give him time to answer. He turns Peter around, crowds him up against the door. Peter isn’t sure when Wade removed his mask but it’s gone now, the red just peeking out of one of Wade’s pockets. He kisses the corner of Peter’s mouth, his jaw, his neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. Peter tilts his head, encouraging him even as he says, “I- I don’t know if that’s smart.”

“Want me to beg?” Wade asks, sounding almost amused. One of his hands has found it’s way under Peter’s shirt, is stroking the skin just above the waistband of his jeans. The other is flat against Peter’s back, keeping them close.

Peter doesn’t reply, too busy making a mental list of pros and cons and getting sidetracked by the thought of Wade on his knees.

As if he can read minds, Wade says, “Here, I’ll ask nicely. Can I _pretty please_ blow you?”

Peter laughs, breathless. His mouth is suddenly very dry. “So _romantic_ , Wade. You really know how to treat a lady.”

“So’s that a yes?” Wade’s fingers drop to Peter’s belt buckle. “Here or inside?”

Peter laughs again. “Oh my god, no. Most of my neighbors are old ladies.”

Wade rests his head on Peter's shoulder. “They’ve probably seen worse.”

Peter shakes his head. He nudges Wade’s chin with his fingers, drawing him into a proper kiss. He hopes it softens the blow when he asks, sweetly, “Rain check?” It nearly pains him to say it. He wants- he just _wants_. But it feels wrong to get Wade’s hopes up when Peter is so unsure. Black Widow definitely accomplished what she set out to do- shake Peter’s faith in Wade and their burgeoning relationship.

Wade groans.

“You sound like a dying animal,” Peter notes.

“I _am_ dying. You’re _killing_ me.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not. I’m being one hundred percent literal. We’ve found my kryptonite- being rejected by Peter Parker.”

“Not _rejected_ … Just postponed.” He coaxes Wade into meeting his gaze. Actually seeing Wade’s eyes is still so novel. “I had fun tonight,” he tells him seriously. “Thank you.”

Wade steals one more kiss. He smiles into it. “Goodnight then, baby boy. I’ll see you soon?”

“I hope so.”

Wade seems reluctant to let go but, finally, he does. He takes a deep breath and steps back. Then, with one last wink, he turns to trot down the stairs. Peter watches him go, internally cursing himself for letting him walk away.

“Damn responsibility,” he murmurs, finally shoving the key into the lock and pushing the door open with what probably amounts to more force than necessary.

The packet is still staring at him from his desk, begging for attention. At first, Peter turns his back, intending to shower and go to bed and continue ignoring it, like always. But then he changes his mind. He snatches the packet up, marches to the garbage can, and holds it poised to drop.

He could just get rid of it. If he doesn’t know what’s in it, he doesn’t have to feel guilty about this thing with Wade. He can just go on living in blissful ignorance. He could call Wade _right now_ and tell him to come back and finish what he started.

But… that’s not entirely true. He still has cause to feel guilty, packet or no packet. He knows what Wade is. A killer. And whether he looks at the Avengers info or not, eventually he’s going to have to face that reality. Eventually he’s going to have to either confront Wade about it or cut ties. It’s silly to think he and Wade could ever be anything serious when they have such a fundamental disagreement between them.

Peter doesn’t throw the packet away. He goes and sits at his desk and stares at it.

He’s not sure how much time passes. Eventually he braces himself and opens it.

It appears to be copies of every piece of information the Avengers have on Wade. It’s the file Wade joked about them having. Sitting there, for Peter to peruse, is all of Wade’s personal information. His height and weight and birthday. It details the abuse he suffered as a child, his time as a member of Special Forces, his start as a mercenary, and his entry into Weapon X. It lists every person he’s ever been romantically involved with and some of their unfortunate ends.

Peter feels sick reading it. With himself, mostly, because whatever else this is, it’s also a gross invasion of privacy. But he can’t seem to stop.

He only feels sicker when he reaches the details of what Wade suffered in Weapon X. Peter thinks it would’ve broken a lesser man- and then reminds himself that it _did_ break Wade, which only becomes more and more evident as he scans Wade’s post-Weapon X history. His rapidly escalating kill count, his so-called “episodes”, his mood swings. There are multiple, tentative psychological diagnoses listed in the margins- including schizophrenia, psychopathy, and sociopathy- each given by a different doctor.

The pictures, though, are by far the worst part of the whole thing. Each comes with a detailed report of Wade’s “mission” and it’s resulting body count. There’s Wade shooting a man at point blank range in the head, skewering a man on two of his blades, disarming a man by _literally_ removing both of his arms. In his search for this man Francis, which Peter now knows as one of the men responsible for Wade’s condition, Wade spared no one. Even men surrendering to him. If they were in any way a part of Weapon X, Wade cut them down without a thought.

Peter has always known what Wade is. What he does. He even got a taste of it in Colorado. But he’d assumed- he’d _hoped_ \- that was an unusual occurrence. A one-time thing. But it would seem the only thing unusual thing about it was that Peter was able to stop Wade from killing that man.

Knowing and seeing are two different things. Now Peter has irrefutable proof that Wade is just as bad as the evil men Spider-Man defeats. He has no value for human life.

It’s hard to reconcile the picture the packet paints with the version of Wade that Peter has come to care for. But now Peter is doubting that anything Wade has said or done was genuine. The two little girls he met, the ones Wade went out of his way to please- were they real? Was that a set up? A deliberate scene to garner Spider-Man’s trust?

Peter wants, more than anything, _not_ to believe what he’s seeing.

He takes out the phone Wade gave him. He runs his finger along the Deadpool sticker on the back. One of the edges is already starting to peel away. Peter smoothes it down.

He takes a deep breath, flips the phone open, and hits the call button.

“What, missing me already?” is Wade’s greeting. “I haven’t even made it home yet.”

Peter bites his lip. He thinks about hanging up.

“Can you… come back? We need to talk.”

“Uh-oh,” says Wade. “Be right there.”

Peter hangs up. He leaves the packet’s contents right where they are and waits.


	13. Chapter 13

Peter isn’t really sure what his face is doing but it must be something _not good_ because concern starts pouring off Wade in waves as soon as he lays eyes on him.

“Peter?” he asks, taking him by the shoulders. At some point on the journey home he replaced his mask. Peter can’t decide if it’s going to make things easier or harder, not being able to see his face. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“Uh… No.” Peter shrugs him off. He nudges the door open the rest of the way, silently directing Wade to enter. Wade does, and starts looking around with interest at Peter’s bare bones apartment. It lacks the personality of Wade’s. You can’t really glean much about Peter Parker from studying it, except that he’s not particularly messy, clutter of books aside. Wade actually seems disappointed.

“Nice place,” he says. “But not very _you_.”

Peter sighs. “I didn’t invite you back so you could give me decorating tips.”

“Why _did_ you invite me, then-“ Wade starts to ask, at the same moment his eyes land on the desk and the pages and pictures spread out atop it.

“That,” Peter tells him, watching as he slowly approaches the file and starts sifting through it’s contents, using one finger to nudge aside papers and photos. “I was hoping… I mean, I want-“

“Where did you get this?” The shift in his mood is palpable. Suddenly he’s angry, defensive- or, at least, teetering on the brink of being both.

Peter matches his tone without trying. “The Avengers- Black Widow. I’ve had it for a while. I couldn’t decide if I should look at it or not.”

Wade stops at one page in particular. Peter can’t see what it says, but he can guess. It’s probably the page about Wade’s time in Weapon X. The amount of details they were somehow able to garner is, frankly, disturbing. “But you did look at it.”

Peter doesn’t bother confirming the obvious. “I want to know if it’s true.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

Wade taps his finger on the desk, hums. “Yep,” he says, popping the p. “All looks pretty true to me. The Avengers are pretty good about fact checking. What I don’t get is why they gave this to you. To warn you off? It’s none of their _fucking_ business. Hypocrites, the whole motherfucking lot of them.” He whirls on Peter, finally looking at him again. “And? Did it work? Are you disgusted with me now? Scared of me? Think I should be thrown in a cell?” He sounds like he already thinks he knows the answer, like he’s already prepared to defend himself.

“No, Wade, stop-“

“You already _knew_ all this shit, Peter, so don’t you _dare_ -“

“I thought I knew. I thought I understood what I was getting into. But look at that, Wade. You’re- you’re a killer-“

Wade’s hands are balled into fists at his side. “Are we really doing this? I told you that. I told you _exactly that_ so don’t throw that shit in my face, don’t act like you didn’t know. How many times did I warn you? God, Peter, over and over again, and you never acted like it really phased you, so I thought…” He trails off. He’s slouching, diminishing his own height.

Part of Peter wants to cross the room and comfort Wade, wants to never have this argument. But the sensible part of him knows that isn’t really an option and never was. “I want,” Peter begins, only to be interrupted.

“I know what you want,” Wade sneers. “You want me to be a _hero_ , right? A self-fucking-righteous goody two shoes- like you.” He starts pacing, like a caged animal. Like he doesn’t know what to do with this sudden surge of adrenaline. “But guess what? My way is better. My way works. I put assholes in the ground so they can’t hurt anyone else ever again. And you? You fight the same fucking bad guys on repeat because your precious _system_ doesn’t work.”

Peter’s stomach is turning and his face feels hot. He’s trying to stay calm but it’s difficult in the face of Wade’s abrupt anger. “Is that what you really think?” he asks, voice just this side of eerily serene.

Wade doesn’t answer. Maybe he doesn’t even hear. “You can’t be this naïve, Peter. You can’t really think the world is this black and white. Shit, I know you’re young, but-“

“I’m _naïve_ just because I think killing people is wrong?” Peter speaks through gritted teeth. He doesn’t like Wade being angry with him, he likes being angry with Wade even less. And yet. “That’s pretty basic hero stuff, Wade. Killing is wrong. We put killers behind bars.”

“Right, cause I’m sure you’ve _never_ killed anyone before. Not even _once_. And the Avengers? It’s not like they leave a trail of bodies wherever they go, right? How about the X-Men. Have you asked about their kill count recently? Or is it just me you decided to go all Mother Theresa on?” He’s stopped pacing in favor of gesturing wildly. Peter is fairly certain that if he weren’t blocking the door, Wade would have already bolted.

“It’s called self-defense,” Peter argues, arms folded over his chest. “Notice I said _self-defense_. Not vengeance, not senseless slaughter. There’s a _difference_.”

“Doesn’t look like much of one from where I’m standing.” He shakes his head- at himself or at Peter, Peter isn’t sure. “I can’t believe you lead me the fuck on. I can’t believe I _let_ you. I should’ve known- too good to be true, right?”

He makes as if to leave, stepping toward the door. Peter doesn’t move.

They’re just inches apart, Peter tilting his head up, Wade standing at full height again, practically chest to chest. Peter wants to say something to fix this but the words won’t come. He doesn’t know if it can even be fixed. He’s not okay with what Wade does, he can’t tell him it’s fine, but he can’t bring himself to do the opposite, either. To tell him to lose his number or get out of his city. It’s too final.

“Get out of my way,” Wade practically hisses when Peter neither says nor does anything.

Peter moves. Wade slams the door shut behind himself.

Peter goes to bed angry and confused and replaying everything Wade said over and over again in his head.

-

It doesn’t really hit Peter until the next day, the fact that he shouldn’t be expecting any texts or that he can’t just call Wade on his lunch break or that they won’t be meeting up that night for tacos or that Peter probably shouldn’t count on Wade being around to help out with any crime fighting. For all he knows, Wade’s already skipped town and won’t be back anytime soon.

At first it’s just sort of this vague, persistent irritation, like an itch he can’t scratch. He’ll pick up his Deadpool phone (he thinks about peeling the sticker off, then doesn’t), open it, remember that he and Wade aren’t speaking, and close it again. Or he’ll think of something funny to tell Wade on the phone later, only to realize there won’t be any phone conversations in the foreseeable future.

But then, after the second day, it becomes less an irritation and more a tangible hole in his life. He hadn’t quite realized just how much of his social calendar had been taken over and claimed by Wade. But now he has all this free time. Free time he should be using to study or sleep or clean, but when he tries he just- loses interest. Loses motivation. Because he can’t stop thinking about Wade, about what he’d rather be doing and with whom.

By day four he’s thinking, okay, sure, I miss him now but it’ll pass.

Only it doesn’t pass. It just gets worse. He replays their conversation in his head for the millionth time, only this time he changes it. He imagines what he could’ve said to make Wade stay, to make him understand, to keep him from getting angry. He imagines himself saying, _I don’t care anymore, I just want to be with you_. It’s more true than Peter is comfortable admitting.

On day six he tries texting Wade. A plea for the two of them to talk.

Predictably, there’s no response.

So Peter tries calling. It rings and rings and goes to voicemail. The first several tries, Peter doesn’t leave one. Then he figures, why not, and keeps it short and sweet. He asks Wade to please, _please_ call him, just so he knows he’s okay. He says that he really wants to talk, that he doesn’t want them to be on bad terms.

Wade never calls him back.

If there’s one thing Peter hates, it’s being ignored. He’d rather have Wade yelling at him again than stonewalling him like this.

Still, it’s largely on a whim that he decides to deviate from a patrol route one night and swing by Wade’s apartment. He _just_ intends to swing by, not go inside. But then he sees a light on and, well.

In his own defense, he does knock on the window first. It’s only when he gets no answer that he slides it open and goes inside, uninvited and grateful that Wade never learned his lesson about locking it.

The only light on, the one Peter had seen through the window, is the kitchen light, spilling out into the living room. Peter opens his mouth to call for Wade, only to come up short when he really registers what he’s looking at.

The apartment is a _mess_. And not just Wade’s usual brand of messy. It’s actually trashed, as though it’s been ransacked. Couch cushions are ripped open, the TV and bookshelf are toppled over, posters are torn from the walls, Wade’s gaming system is smashed and his DVD collection is scattered in pieces across the concrete floor. The kitchen doesn’t look to be in much better shape. Every dish Wade owns- which, admittedly, isn’t all that many- looks to be broken, the glass spilling across the tile and reflecting the light.

Peter steps carefully around the mess, picking his way toward the bedroom, growing increasingly concerned, especially once he notices the trail of what looks like blood leading from the front door. “Wade?” he calls. No answer.

He hesitates with his hand on the door knob. Is this another invasion of privacy? Peter’s never been in Wade’s room before. He’s never been invited in.

Special circumstances, Peter tells himself, and goes in anyway. The door creaks as it opens, the hinges in need of oiling. The only light is that of the moon, slanting in through gaps in the blinds over the bedroom window.

The first thing Peter notices is the Deadpool suit and weapons laying across the sheets.

Then his eyes find Wade, sitting on the floor, propped up against his bed. He’s in plainclothes, chin tilted down, one arm wrapped over himself and the other clutching the teleportation belt.

“Wade…?” Peter ventures, crouching down beside him. But even as he says it, he gets that feeling one gets when they’re talking to someone they know can’t hear them. Wade isn’t moving- isn’t even breathing. He’s dead.

It’s a weird thing to think. Even weirder that it shouldn’t send Peter into a panic.

“What happened to you?” he asks aloud, just because it’s too quiet in the apartment. The moon doesn’t provide much light but it does reveal shiny, wet stickiness on Wade’s hands and clothes. Peter pries Wade’s arm away from his midsection and discovers the source of the blood- a gaping wound in his stomach, at which point Peter is glad there isn’t more light. He can see plenty already.

He blows out a breath, not sure what to do. Not sure how fast Wade’s healing factor is supposed to be working. He’d healed from that gunshot to the head incredibly quickly. Then again, Peter doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here. Maybe just mere seconds. Maybe the wound is already knitting itself back together and Wade will wake up any at any moment.

Part of Peter wants to stick around and find out but he knows he’s probably the last person Wade wants to see when he wakes up, and there’s no telling what kind of mood he’ll be in after getting hurt like this. Peter isn’t looking to pick another fight.

Instead, Peter clears off the bed and helps Wade onto it. It’s not difficult, with his enhanced strength, and Wade is still warm and pliable, which is probably a good sign. At least now maybe Wade won’t wake up with aches and pains from sitting on the floor for so long.

“You’re a sap,” Peter tells himself as he places a pillow under Wade’s head. He almost removes Wade’s mask, as well- the only part of the Deadpool suit he’s currently wearing- but stops just short, decides against it. He’s pretty sure he forfeited the right to see Wade’s face. Hopefully just temporarily.

Peter decides to make one more plea for communication, vows to himself that if he doesn’t hear from Wade this time, he’ll give up. He doesn’t want to force Wade into anything, after all.

He has to search but eventually he finds pen and paper in the kitchen and scrawls a note.

 _Call me, please_ , it says.

Peter considers, then adds, _I miss you_.

He leaves it on Wade’s nightstand, pauses just long enough to realize that Wade is breathing now. The deep, even breathing of someone who is very, very asleep. It’s a relief, but Peter still leaves feeling unsettled and sad and sure that Wade isn’t going to call.


	14. Chapter 14

Three more days pass before Peter ever hears from Wade. When the phone finally rings- _the_ phone- his stomach sort of bottoms out and he stutters as he answers, shocked. He’d pretty much given up hope. Which is why he spent the last three days trying to stay as busy as possible. No time to dwell, that way.

“Peter?” Wade says, as if it would be anyone else. “What are- why does it sound like you’re being yelled at?” He sounds strange. He’s talking fast but deliberately monotone.

Peter glances over his shoulder, where Jameson is scolding some poor intern. Loudly. He turns back around, shielding the phone from view in case anyone should happen to look over. Not exactly the ideal place for this conversation but Peter isn’t about to lose the opportunity, and there’s enough commotion that he’s pretty sure his voice is drowned out. “It’s not me getting yelled at,” he tells Wade. “But I’m at work.”

“Oh. Sorry. What time is it?”

Peter checks his watch. “About ten in the morning.”

“Shit, I thought it was later. Okay, I can- call back or. Something.”

Peter abruptly realizes that Wade sounds strange because he’s _nervous_. “Wait,” he says, somewhat irrationally afraid that if Wade hangs up now he’ll never hear from him again. He laughs, mostly at himself. “I mean, _obviously_ I want to talk. I’ve been trying to reach you since you stormed out of my apartment.”

“Yeah, I… listened to the voicemails,” Wade says, carefully. “And got your note. And I think maybe I’ve been kind of an asshole.” He makes a sort of self-deprecating noise, tinny over the phone line. “Sorry it took me so long to call. There was some shit I had to take care of. Some things I needed to sort out. You know how it is.”

Peter hunches over, places his hand over the phone, realizes that looks suspicious and straightens back up. He lowers his voice as he asks, “By the way, what happened to your place?”

“What?”

“Uh, it was kinda trashed last time I was there. Is everything okay? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Oh. Um, no. I did that.”

Since Wade isn’t currently there, Peter directs his mystified look at the nearest wall. “ _You_ wrecked your apartment?”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on coming back and it’s not like I can’t afford to replace all that shit ten times over- Look, it’s a long story. Can I see you? Please? I’m not above begging.”

The fact that Peter has been trying for over a week to get in touch with Wade and Wade still thinks he might have to beg to see him strikes Peter as sad. He’s not sure what it says about the state of Wade’s self-esteem, but it can’t be anything good. “Yeah, of course. I’ll text you, okay? When I’m done here.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Peter is reluctant to end the call. Maybe Wade is, too, but he says, softly, “See you later, Spidey,” and that’s their cue. It’s either hang up or risk looking like a clingy dork, so Peter hangs up.

It might as well be years rather than a small handful of hours before Peter is done at the Bugle. He checks his watch every five minutes or so, like it’s a compulsion. Jameson goes on another rant about Spider-Man but Peter barely notices. He’s pretty sure a couple of people attempt to have conversations with him. He doesn’t _mean_ to brush them off, but he’s distracted. Too busy trying to figure out what the hell he’s going to say to Wade. Too busy trying to organize his thoughts.

It was Peter’s idea to meet somewhere public. Neutral territory. As soon as he’s free of the Bugle, he dons his Spider-Man suit and webs his way to the chosen rooftop. It seemed appropriate. Secluded but not hidden and familiar to them both. And Peter would be lying if he said the mask wasn’t something of a security blanket.

He absolutely expects Wade to show up in uniform, as well. Instead he shows up wearing baggy jeans and a sweater that’s just big enough to make him look smaller than he really is. He’s not even wearing his mask. He’s making himself _vulnerable_ , Peter realizes. He’s reluctant to remove his own mask but it doesn’t seem right to be the only one hiding his face. He slips it off as Wade approaches, hands stuffed in his pockets and chin ducked. Sheepish.

“Hi,” Peter says. Wade takes a seat beside him, their legs dangling over the edge of the building. The people on the streets below look like little more than ants. Neither of them have much cause to be afraid of heights.

“Hi,” Wade parrots. He won’t quite look at Peter.

“You want me to go first?” Peter asks, before an awkward silence is able to set in. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Cause I can totally do that. I’ve been thinking about what I want to say since last time I saw you. And- I guess… I still don’t really _know_. But ‘I’m sorry’ seems like a good place to start.”

_That_ gets Wade’s attention. He looks up, finally. “ _You’re_ sorry? What the fuck for?”

“For going through that file, for starters. I had no right.”

Wade shakes his head. “None of that stuff was _secret_. You could’ve asked me about any of it, Peter. My past, Weapon X, Vanessa- whatever. I would’ve told you anything you wanted to know.”

“Would you? Without getting defensive? Without hiding anything?”

He glowers. “I was starting to think I didn’t need to.”

“Look,” Peter sighs. “I- I stand by my beliefs. My uncle used to say ‘with great power comes great responsibility’. He meant a responsibility to protect people, but he also meant a responsibility not to abuse that power. I can’t appoint myself judge, jury, and executioner. I just _can’t_. What if I pull the trigger on an innocent? On someone’s mom or dad or brother or kid? I’ve had people taken away from me- I can’t do that to someone else. Not if there’s another way.”

“I’ve lost people too, you know. You don’t have that market cornered.”

“I know that. Hell, Wade, after what you’ve been through… Most people would’ve given up a long time ago, I think. But not you. You still try, and I think that’s amazing.”

The resignation on Wade’s face turns to tentative hope. An expression that he quickly and deliberately stifles. Peter could go on. He could probably alternate between singing Wade’s praises and apologizing for a few hours and not run out of words. But curiosity is niggling at him. He can’t stop thinking about the way he’d found Wade a few nights ago.

“So,” he says, when Wade stays silent. “Wanna tell me what happened the other night? You know, right before I walked in on you bleeding out.” That isn’t strictly true- by the time Peter arrived, Wade had already done the bleeding out. He just can’t bring himself to put it in more plain terms.

Wade blows out a breath. “So it’s my turn, huh? You want the short version? After our, uh, talk- I was pretty pissed off. Went home, trashed the place, decided I was fucking done with New York. Then I went out and picked a fight because- I don’t know. Because that’s what I do, I guess. I wanted to punch someone in the face so I went and found someone to punch in the face. And then…” He hesitates.

Peter nudges his foot with his own, silent urging him to go on.

“I took a job,” Wade admits. He’s staring hard at his own hands. “Kind of just to spite you. Fucked up, right? But it was a bad dude, a guy I thought deserved to die. I figured someone should hurt him before he could hurt anyone else. So I was getting all set up to take him out. Doing all the research, planning all the plans- the boring stuff you have to do before you can actually make the hit. But I just kept thinking about you. About how you’re the only hero who’s ever treated me with any goddamn respect. About the way you look at me. Like- like I’m-“ He glances over. “Like _that_.”

Peter can feel himself blushing. He wasn’t aware he looked at Wade any kind of way that could be considered special. He tries to school his expression into something more neutral and, if the way the corner of Wade’s mouth quirks up is any indication, probably fails.

Peter clears his throat. “Did you go through with it?”

Wade scoffs. “Nah. Thinking about your dumb puppy eyes took all the fun out of it. So I backed out. But the guys who hired me- they didn’t like that. They came around to try and talk me into it. But I… was still feeling… Uh, kinda low. Might’ve run my mouth a little bit, goaded them into a fight.”

“A fight that you lost.”

“There were a lot of them,” Wade says, defensive. “And I was trying not to kill any of them. But- yeah. I lost. Had to teleport out of there once I got hurt bad enough because fuck knows what they would’ve done with my corpse.”

“So you came back here?”

“It was the first place I thought of… And I guess I kinda missed it.” He pauses, flicks another glance in Peter’s direction and admits, “And you.”

Peter hums. “You didn’t kill a guy… because of me,” he says. 

“Basically. Which is stupid, right? Cause we’ve got no chance. Doesn’t matter how many I guys I don’t kill, you’ll just bolt the next time I fuck up-“

“Who says there’ll be a next time?”

Wade doesn’t so much roll his eyes as he does his entire body, like he thinks Peter is being denser than anyone has ever been before. “There’s _always_ a next time. Have you even met me?” His fingers are tapping out an uneven rhythm against his knee, more rapidly as his agitation grows. “I’ve tried before. To be- better. A hero. But something always pulls me back and I fuck up and suddenly everyone wants to be first in line to say they knew I was no good all along, that I could never change- all that shit. Eventually you just start to think they’re right, you know?”

While Peter is willing to admit that he’s immensely fond of Wade, he’s never felt all that _protective_ of him. Until now. _Now_ he wants to knock the heads of anyone who’s ever been mean to him. But it’s a childish impulse and he’s not sure Wade would appreciate the sentiment, anyway.

“I didn’t come here to offer you an ultimatum, Wade.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“Hopefully the same reason you wanted to see me. I just… don’t want to lose you. Even if we can only be friends, or-“

“Even if I keep up the mercenary work?”

“Don’t get me wrong- if you’re willing to try, that’s great. But unless you start killing the good guys, or you tell me to leave… I’m not going anywhere.”

“You have no idea how hard that is for me to believe.” With an irritated noise, Wade gets to his feet and starts to pace across the rooftop. Peter stands, too, watches him with arms folded over his chest. He’s clearly having some sort of internal debate. Peter doesn’t push him, just waits it out.

“I _want_ to believe it,” Wade says after a moment, coming to a stop just out of arms reach. “But it seems too good to be true.”

“So let me prove it.” Peter steps forward, takes Wade by the shoulders. His touch has an apparent calming effect because Wade deflates under his hands, the tension draining from him. That naked hope in his eyes is back, and this time he does nothing to quell it. “I know it’s not going to be easy, Wade. We’re both… We have a lot of issues.” He smiles, to take the sting out of the words. “But I want to try. Don’t you?”

Wade catches his lip between his teeth while he thinks. He takes one of Peter’s hands in his own, threads and unthreads their fingers. Finally, he says, “Yeah. We can try.”

“And all is forgiven?”

“I’ll forgive you for snooping if you forgive me for being an asshole.”

Peter beams up at him. “Done.”

Wade is still turning Peter’s hand over in his. “So,” he says, casually, eyes fixed to Peter’s fingers. “About this ‘just friends’ thing…”

Peter’s grin turns sly. “What about it?”

“Well, yeah, we could be just friends, if that’s what you want… Or you could take me back to your place and I could finally give you that blowjob.”

Peter’s nod is perhaps a little _too_ enthusiastic, because Wade laughs at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update! Click ahead to the epilogue~


	15. Epilogue

Peter has to juggle a plate of fresh-baked cookies and brownies to be able to ring the doorbell. Wade’s idea. A pre-emptive peace offering, maybe. Wade had made them himself. It took a little bit of trial an error but this batch was, in his own words, so good that whoever tried them would fall instantly in love with him. 

Peter glances at Wade, now standing on the stoop beside him and looking anxious. “Would you stop fidgeting? Jesus. You’d think we were going to meet the Pope, not my Aunt.”

“Basically the same thing,” Wade mumbles. He puts his hood up, then down, then up again. He groans. “Why couldn’t I just use my shiny new image inducer? She’s gonna be so grossed out. She probably won’t even let me come in. Peter- she’s going to think _I’m not good enough for you_.”

“She’d probably think that even if you looked like a super model,” Peter points out. “But seriously, Wade, you look fine. Everything’s going to be _fine_. Just be yourself.”

Wade nods. “Right,” he mutters. “Myself. Got it.”

“Just,” Peter amends. “No sex jokes. Or cursing. And don’t talk about the whole mercenary thing.”

“Four months and no kills!”

“Yeah, babe, and I’m _super_ proud of you but please don’t brag about that in front of my Aunt. And maybe use your inside voice.”

Wade makes a show of lowering his own volume. He shoots Peter a thumbs up.

“Oh,” Peter adds. “And she thinks you were in the army.”

“The army?” Wade sputters. “Like the American army? Peter, I’m not even _American_.”

“… Uh, yeah, don’t mention that, either.”

Aunt May doesn’t even ask who it is before she swings the door wide, catching Wade in the middle of an eye roll. She’s already grinning. She doesn’t immediately acknowledge Peter in favor of greeting Wade, eyes traveling from his head to his feet and back again. She’s been wanting to meet him since Peter officially declared the two of them together months ago. Peter isn’t the least bit surprised at the lack of judgement he finds in her expression, but Wade seems to be. He acts downright shocked when the first thing she’s does after they’ve exchanged pleasantries is pull him into a hug.

Peter is largely ignored for the rest of the evening. But he’s pretty okay with it. Watching Wade first stutter his way through dinner and then, later, bond with his Aunt over home and gardening television is both adorable and entertaining. Once Wade is sure that Aunt May isn’t going to bite his head off, he loosens up and starts cracking jokes. At one point he has Aunt May doubled over she’s laughing so hard.

Peter loves his Aunt, she’ll always be his favorite person, and seeing her gush over Wade- who has quickly become his second favorite person- has him feeling all warm and fuzzy and _fond_. Of both of them but especially of Wade, who’s been trying _so hard_ these last few months. Peter feels a swell of pride and affection when Aunt May passes him on her way to the kitchen and pauses just long enough to wink and whisper, “Good catch, Peter. I like him.”

“Me too,” Peter agrees, grinning. As soon as his Aunt May is gone from the room, Peter plants himself beside Wade on the couch, eager to be close. “See?” he says. “Told you there was nothing to be worried about.”

Wade obligingly throws an arm over Peter’s shoulders, pulling him closer still. “All part of my plan to supplant you as the favorite.”

“Shut up.” Peter digs an elbow into Wade’s side. “I’ll always be the favorite.”

“Give it time. She hasn’t tried the brownies yet.” There’s mirth in Wade’s eyes. It’s infectious and Peter is helpless to do anything but smile back at him. Wade plants a kiss on his cheek and lingers there, nuzzling at him in a way that’s more playful and affectionate than anything. He’s practically exuding happiness.

Peter loves him.

This isn’t news, exactly, but it’s the first time Peter’s thought of it like that. In those words.

“Uh,” he says, aloud. He hadn’t meant to.

“What?” Wade asks, pulling back, head tilted like a quizzical puppy.

Peter blushes. “I was just… thinking,” he says, slowly. He can’t tell Wade now. It’s- not the right time. Instead, he brings up something else he’s been considering. “You know how you’re at my place most of the time now?”

“Yeah…?” A worried crease appears on Wade’s forehead.

“Not that I mind!” Peter rushes to add. “Actually, what I was thinking was… What if you just kinda… stayed there. All the time.”

“You want me to move in with you?” Peter can’t glean anything from Wade’s tone or expression.

“Yes?” Peter ventures. “It’s silly for you to keep your place, right? You’re never really there anyway,” he justifies. “And most of your stuff has migrated to my apartment already so it’s not like it’d be that different-“

“ _You_ want _me_ to move in with you?” Wade reiterates.

Peter shifts around as he tries to fish something out of his pocket. “I kinda already had an extra key made,” he says, holding it up. “It’s cool if you don’t want to, though. You can still have the key, just in case or whatever-“

Wade snatches the key, eyes wide. “Holy shit. Yes. _Yes_ , baby boy, of course I’ll move in with you! What the fuck!”

“Shh,” Peter hisses, glancing around for his Aunt. But he can still hear the faucet running in the kitchen so he figures they’re safe until she gets the dishes done. “Language!”

Wade is holding the key like it’s a sacred artifact. “I’m going to be the best fucking roommate ever,” he says, ignoring Peter’s warning. “This is the second best day of my life now, oh my god.”

Peter grins, then falters. “Wait, second best? What was the first best?”

“Last week, when you finally let me-“

“Okay!” Peter says, cutting him off. “Enough of that!” He pauses, then adds, “But yeah, that was pretty great.”

“I know,” Wade agrees, giddy. He leans in and kisses Peter properly, the two of them smiling into it.

Yeah, Peter loves him. And though Wade’s never said as much, he’s pretty sure the feeling is mutual.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [tumblr](http://dontcareajot.tumblr.com)! Come say hi!


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